


Capitulation

by imperfectandchaotic



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: F/M, Gen, I'm kind of bad at that, minor non-con, okay so the violence isn't probably all that graphic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-07-27
Updated: 2011-01-08
Packaged: 2017-12-19 04:25:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 20
Words: 63,389
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/879436
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imperfectandchaotic/pseuds/imperfectandchaotic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Falling. The bishop falls for her, as does the die for him. It's like a kick, pulling them up for air when they find themselves drowning in the shadows of an ill-fated dream, thrown in by someone who wants nothing more than to rip them apart.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> This is part of my en masse cross-posting from ff.net and I've kept the publishing dates the same out of nostalgia, so please ignore any awful grammar mistakes because there are some and I haven't had time to comb through the fic yet. 
> 
> You'll note that Cobb is ambiguously absent, meaning I couldn't commit myself to either possible ending (though in my heart of hearts I wish it stops).
> 
> Enjoy!

It was done.

The Job (as it came up inside her mind) was complete. Cobb was gone. Ariadne hadn't known what to do or say besides mutely rise from her seat on the plane, pass through customs and immigration and the pointed stares of— **not projections—** the people working in customs and immigration. She waits for her one bag that holds basically nothing. When it finally arrives she glances up again to the chaos of the airport.

They are all gone.

She isn't miffed or offended or sad, (because  _it's not strictly speaking legal_ , after all) really Ariadne is just bewildered at absolutely everything, too bewildered. She can feel her lungs start to constrict, air flow cutting off. The bishop is firm in her grasp; her fingers hold on so tight that her nails dig into her palm around the totem. All sense of reason abandons her as she is overwhelmed with the need to put it down; to watch the bishop fall and swing in a gentle half circle before coming to a stop.

She has to know that  _this is real._

But as much as the sudden panic crushes her chest, Ariadne cannot risk the crowded floor, even for a moment, because  _no one else can touch your totem._ So the architect rushes out into the blinding sunshine, tugging at the scarf around her neck because she  **can't breathe** and hails a cab, not even noticing when the scarf falls silently to the ground as the cab screeches away.

**.a.**

Details are his business.

Arthur can feel the very distinct weight of the die in his pocket, but that doesn't stop his fingers from reaching in and turning it over and over against the fabric of his pristine pants. He'd taken his time de-boarding, casting his die on the first smooth, level surface he saw. The knowledge that Ficher's nightmare is behind him is comforting, however the fact that he'd missed such an important— _literally life and death_ —detail is, in itself, the most unsettling part of his twisted journey.

In truth, Arthur has no idea how he could have missed it. The man was trained against Extractors, for God's sake. How could he  _not_ have known? Arthur is about to wrack his brain, but decides against it, gripping the die tighter in his hand and striding out of the airport, impeccably dressed and poised as always; as the point man should be. Except when dealing with Cobb in level one. He forces himself not to dwell on it.

Out of the corner of his eye he can see Ariadne, ducking into a cab. Her eyes are wild, frightened. The car darts from the curb and through the crowd Arthur thinks he spies something bright and translucent glide onto the sidewalk. He has to be sure. He lopes over with steady, assured steps, and eventually finds his fingers flooded with the filmy material of Ariadne's scarf. Her cab is still in view. Arthur grabs the next one he sees, slams the door, and points.

"Follow that cab, please."

**.a.**

They talked about aliases once.

Between ' _Who's Mr. Charles?'_ and ' _Quick, give me a kiss'_ , before Ariadne had felt that tug of an invisible line being pulled taut, so tight in fact she'd been scared of the snap. But then he drawls ' _it was worth a shot,'_  in dry humourand she relaxes, because even though this moment is so  **not Arthur** , this tiny conned kiss sends an equal jolt of thrill and comfort down her spine.

As if this job wasn't  **life and death** , (because it is), as if they weren't breaking all kinds of laws (because they are), as if they were just Ariadne and Arthur (because they aren't) climbing the Penrose stairs. Of course that's definitely not how this works anymore.

" _So if Cobb is Mr. Charles, who are you?"_

_He shrugs a little. The action is too vague on Arthur's shoulders, what with his default of clean, concise, straight edges and sharp lines. "I'm...I'm Mr. Dawson."_

_Ariadne shoots him a somewhat dubious, amused look. "You just made that up."_

_Arthur turns his gaze from hers. The ghost of a smile dusts across his lips. "I most certainly did not."_

_She opens her mouth to argue this, but her focus is almost immediately deterred by the dozens of eyes now trained on them. "...what's happening?"_

" _His subconscious is looking for the dreamer. Me."_

Ariadne tightens her grip on the bishop, pressing her lips together in a vain attempt not to remember. It was quick, innocent, an attempt to deter Fischer's subconscious projections from noticing them. It didn't really mean anything, right? Her gaze travels lazily to the half dozen or so hotels that line the street. She'd asked for a three star hotel, one where she could simultaneously treat herself and deflect suspicion.

She's just a college kid, after all; one who shouldn't be able to afford four or five-star hotels, despite the sizable sum that Saito had wired to all of them. It was certainly more money than she'd ever hoped of having. So Ariadne settles for the first three-star on the street, thrusting cash at the driver, and hurries inside. She's breathless arriving at the reception counter.

The first thing she does is place the bishop on the varnished wood. It falls with a sense of final, deep relief. Ariadne asks for three nights, almost giddy and delirious. The woman working asks for her name, and she pauses for the briefest of moments. If she's learned anything on this job, it's that everything about it puts her in danger. And what self-respecting law-breaker would use their real name, anyway?

"Dawson."

**.a.**

She's nothing if not smart. Arthur nods in silent approval to himself at Ariadne's hotel choice. She's learned quickly, although after her first lesson, he shouldn't really be surprised. Dom called her one of a kind. So it's only halfway up to the reception counter that the point man has to decide how smart he thinks the architect really is. (This train of thought also stems from the fact he doesn't even know her last name. Not that  _she_ knows  _his,_ or anything.)

Arthur takes his (nearly) infallible professionalism to reception and smiles politely at the woman sitting there. She starts at the sight of him. "C-Can I help you?"

"I most certainly hope so." Arthur's smile grows carefully wider. Yes it is overkill, completely unlike him with his precision and un-minced words. But he's unwilling to take the risk of being denied what he wants, so if he has to flirt with the woman at the reception desk of Ariadne's hotel, then so be it.

"I was wondering a Ms. Dawson is staying at this hotel. I have something of hers that I need to return immediately, for I'm afraid she doesn't know she's missing it."

Her scarf—gauzy and pink and staple Ariadne—is weightless in his fingertips. The receptionist's eyes widen. She straightens in her chair, holding her (quite large) chest out without subtlety. "You actually just missed her...I could take that, if you prefer. I could pass it on when she comes down next."

She used his name; his fake, never-used-anyway-made-up-on-the-spot-because-Dom-just-had-to-pull-the-Mr. Charles name. He's not quite sure what to make of this.

" _Quick, give me a kiss."_

_He's thinking on his feet. Really. That's what it is, as a startled Ariadne turns to look at him and he leans over to place a chaste kiss on her lips. He can feel the exhale of her breath against his face._

" _They're still looking at us."_

" _Well, it was worth a shot."_

_He doesn't really have time to smile inwardly at the (adorable) flush of her cheeks and her mildly disbelieving stare, because the projections are starting to do more than just look._

Arthur is suddenly filled with the desire to grin wickedly and wag his finger at this ridiculous woman. He knew she'd try that, which is why he confirms her suspicions (without the malice and finger waving.) "It's no problem. It's just...well; it's a genuine Parisian scarf. One of her favourites actually, and I just wouldn't feel comfortable not delivering it to her personally."

The receptionist visibly deflates. He is successful in disguising the disgust on his face, leaning forward the slightest bit. "You couldn't give me her room number could you? It would mean the world to me."

"302." The woman's dejection is palpable even as she smiles earnestly, obviously attempting to keep at least one possibility afloat. She  _tosses her_ (painfully platinum blonde) _hair over her shoulder._  "Are you sure that's all you need?"

There's an urge to laugh, coming deep from within his throat. Arthur quickly makes his exit. "Yes, thank you very much."

As he walks away, he wonders briefly what Eames would have thought of that. Who said Cobb's point man had no imagination?

**.a.**

You would think that ten hours (more or less) of continuous sleep would be nothing but refreshing. Ariadne begs to differ. The mental toll of three (crazy ass run for your lives and try to avoid the Extractor's tortured shade of a wife) levels of dream plus Dom's—a fourth. Plus a fourth. She still hasn't decided whether that was Limbo, or just the deep recesses of Dom's dreams. It can't be both (right?), and she can't choose. So she doesn't. Ariadne just calls it four levels of shared dream.

Case in point: it's exhausting.

All she wants to do is fall into a dreamless sleep. But Ariadne knows that's not going to happen. She knows because every time her eyes are closed for too long, she sees her. She sees a crazed Mal rattling the confines of her prison, she sees her plunging a knife into her chest (Ariadne's still not quite over that), and she sees the two broken, lost halves of a whole dying together on the floor of a crumbling oblivion.

Sleep isn't really up there on the list of Possible right now. The architect of unreal realities contents herself with calming her still erratically beating heart, clutching her totem in one hand and reaching to fiddle with the scarf around her neck...that's not there. Ariadne jerks up, slamming the bishop onto the bedside table. She's not even looking when the dull 'thunk' reaches her ears, instead tearing her hotel room and bag apart.

That's a hundred dollar hand-made scarf from Paris damn it! Where the hell is it? Ariadne forces her mind to back up, knowing it shouldn't be too hard...only to remember pulling at her scarf in agitation in her rush to leave the airport. Great. Just great. She lets out a small shriek of frustration. It was her favourite, too. She remembers putting it on just before the flight, hoping (foolishly) that it might bring them luck.

Moments into Fisher's dream however, she realized that all the luck in the world wouldn't have helped them. Ariadne takes deep breaths to dispel the intense fear and panic, barely registering the sound of knocking over her inner turmoil.

"Who is it?"

She should have gone for four-star. At least they had peep holes. Ariadne grabs the first thing within reach—her totem—and fists it in her hand. If anything, it's heavy. If she aimed well enough, it could knock out.

"Mr. Dawson."

She almost drops the bishop. The voice is unmistakably Arthur's. He sounds...amused. For once, she isn't sure her totem can help her detect danger. A trick could be easy. On the other hand, who else would know her (stolen) fake name? Most obviously, the person who gave it to her.

"Come in."

Ariadne doesn't even realize the door was still ajar until it swings open. After she says it she realizes she'll have to open it herself, but before she can move it opens on its own. Or rather, with Arthur's help. He stands with his hands behind his back, a small, kind smile on his face. The woman opposite him forces herself to let go of her totem, placing it once more onto the bedside table. She can't tear her gaze from Arthur's (fearfully, she admits to herself) and listens instead for the 'thunk.'

It sounds a moment later.

Arthur's smile twists in understanding. "Very good, Ariadne. With the name, as well."

She lets out a breath, unaware she'd been holding it, and pockets her bishop. A strained smile finds its way to her lips. "Thanks." Ariadne wonders how they could have possibly shared the same ten-hour flight. Arthur is (as he always is) the epitome of professional-looking, without a hair out of place. Not even a wrinkle. "Er, what's up?"

He seems to remember himself, putting a hand in his pocket and withdrawing something she thought she'd never see again: her scarf. "I believe this is yours?"

**.a.**

When Ariadne looks back on this moment, she tends to blush a little. Or a lot. What she  **should have done** was calmly accepted her scarf, thank Arthur, and let him be on his way, because she couldn't think of any reason he'd stay in Los Angeles.

What Ariadne  **does** is grab the scarf, feel tears build in her eyes, and throw her arms around him. She can't even get in enough breath to thank him, although he probably won't hear the words, muffled against his tie as they'd most likely be. She feels it; the drawn-out second in which he freezes, before carefully wrapping his arms around her in a loose, tentative embrace.

They stay like that for five of Arthur's steady heartbeats, before Ariadne jerks away in a fit of embarrassment. Arthur is smiling again; that infinitely kind smile that greeted her the first time she'd awoken from a dream with Cobb, breathless and terrified. The same smile when he agrees that  _there's nothing quite like it_ , or when he teaches her about totems.

It just makes her blush deeper.

"I'm sorry Arthur, I just...thank you." She trails off, unsure of what exactly had come over her. It's then she realizes there are still tears burning in her eyes. Ariadne whips around, her hair following like a shield as she drags the back of her wrist over her eyes.

"Don't worry about it."

He sounds perfectly at ease with talking to her back. She can hear that minute lift of his voice; that mix of amusement and infinite patience that she doesn't know how to respond to. She suddenly feels so young and childish, standing there, trying not to burst into tears.

"Are you alright, Ariadne?"

Like the tentative embrace, the tentativeness of his question surprises her. They'd never breached those barriers before; the kiss being something completely different, and the fact that Cobb always seemed like the one who kept post on their architect. She knows that he's being nice, sweet even, because nowhere in all of her learning and training and dreaming did attachment ever come up, aside from the blaring, neon, angry destruction of Mal and Cobb. And she knows that he can tell when she lies. He's been inside her dreams, after all.

She lies anyway. "I'm fine."

"I don't believe you." A response akin to the (steady, to the point, structured) Arthur she'd first met is comforting.

"You wouldn't, would you?"

His features have also settled back into something familiar; calm, professional, serious. If this wasn't default Arthur, it would have disconcerted her. He shakes his head to solidify the statement. "Not after what you've been through."

She doesn't try to argue this, instead averting her eyes and reaching up to tie her scarf. Her hands shake. It's maddening. When Ariadne finds the courage to look up again, he's still watching with that unwavering patience.

"I can't sleep."

Arthur nods once. She's almost surprised he doesn't press, and then remembers that this is  _Arthur_ , and she's never seen him sleep without a catheter inserted into his arm. "What about eat? Are you hungry?"

Ariadne opens her mouth to say "starving," but stops herself, feeling a pressure of something like mingled confusion and annoyance tug in her gut. "You don't have to check up on me, Arthur."

He nods again. "Maybe I don't."  _But I will anyway._ The unspoken hangs in the air as he repeats, "Hungry?"

Sensing she's never going to win this argument, Ariadne takes her turn nodding, grabbing her bag and pulling it over her head. She clutches her bishop in her pocket as she follows Arthur out the door.

**.a.**

The air is thicker and warmer than it is in Paris. Still, it is better than the starkness of the hotel, and Ariadne breathes deeply. She's silently let Arthur take the lead. He's obviously been here before, with his ever-assured steps and steady expression. He knows exactly where he's going, which allows her to concentrate on organizing her convoluted thoughts. Cobb, Mal, Fisher, Eames, Yusuf, Saito. She wonders where they all are now.

"Feel like anything in particular?"

She shakes her head, following the line of his gaze to the small outdoor cafe across the street. She can feel the blood rush from her face at the stark throwback to her first lesson in dream sharing. She hadn't even realized she'd flinched until Arthur's hand was on her elbow, guiding her gently towards the other set of lights. They cross in the other direction and end up at a sit-down restaurant.

Ariadne orders the first thing she sees: a burger, while Arthur asks for a kind of pasta. Their waitress makes eyes at him, and Ariadne has to stifle her laughter into the glass of water raised to her lips. It's the first time she's laughed in weeks. The thought is sobering, and the smile slides from her face.

"What happens now?" She's almost afraid to ask. She can't go back to Paris and pretend as though none of this had happened, as if her life hasn't been irrevocably and forever altered by that one flight and the weeks leading up to it. "After...what happens?"

Arthur sits up a little more (if possible) and looks as though he's gearing himself up, as though he'd been training for weeks just to answer this one question. Of course, it would have been foolish of him not to expect it.

"Well, everyone involved tends to make themselves scarce for as long as possible, at least until another job comes in. A month or two, maybe more. I've actually never worked with a team this large before. Usually it was just me and Cobb."

Ariadne nods. He watches her intently, gauging her reaction. "You don't have to do this again, you know."

She sucks in a breath, trying to imagine a reality in which she can't bend walls and shatter buildings. "What if..."  _What if I want to?_

Arthur's eyes narrow, just slightly. She shouldn't want this, she knows. The addiction is too obvious, the danger too evident in Cobb, and in Mal. But she can't help it.  _It's pure creation._ As an architect, as  _The Architect,_ Ariadne knows that anything she could design in the real word, dealing with limits and logic and physics of reality could not compare with what she could design inside a dream. Where anything is possible.

"I can't go back."

She doesn't mean Paris. She can certainly go back to Paris. He knows what she's talking about.

"Try," he says, almost gently. "Aren't you still technically working on that degree?"

Ariadne makes a face, realizing suddenly how far behind she's gotten in her schooling. She can feel herself wanting to say it doesn't matter anymore, but she knows it does. She wasn't going to waste three years at one of the finest universities in the world. Even for designs she could possibly lose herself in with her limitless imagination.

"Okay." The ' _but'_  hinges on her lips like a waiting sky diver. He can see she wants to say more, that much she knows. But neither say much more for a while, since the food has arrived and both have just realized how famished they are. For a long time they just sit and eat, and Ariadne lets herself be comforted by the easy silence.

Finally, he says what she wants to hear. "I'll contact you. If something comes up."

Knowing this is all she's going to get, Ariadne smiles. It's enough for her.

**.a.**

As he accompanies her back to the hotel, Arthur can tell she's going to crash. Even he can feel the weight of the exhaustion, pressing behind his eyes and through to his bones. They arrive in silence to her door, and he's a little surprised to see her ushering him in and closing it behind them. He realizes she probably craves the company.

"You should sleep."

He's loath to cause her pain, but Arthur has been through this. He knows. Ariadne flinches, ever so slightly, before sitting down on the bed. When she looks up at him, her eyes are filled with fear.

"I'm scared." There is a pause, as he wonders what he could possibly say to quell her panic. "Could you...could you stay?"

Arthur finds himself nodding before even thinking about it. He settles into the large chair next to her bed, pulling it just a bit closer. He can see Ariadne's hesitation as she takes off her shoes and sweater and crawls underneath the covers. Her eyelids droop, and at the last moment before he watches her lose total consciousness, her hand reaches out and grasps his wrist. He looks down at the pale, slender fingers holding him, but doesn't move.

Arthur dozes in and out as Ariadne slumbers, what looks like peacefully. He can't remember the last time he'd slept with such continuity and depth. Besides on the job, of course. Several hours later night has fallen, and the woman beside him awakens with a jerk. Her hand constricts around his. She jumps even more when she sees him, sitting there half immersed in shadow.

With her free hand (he's not sure if she's realized where her other one is yet) she extracts her totem, reaching over to place it on the table. It falls, and he watches her entire body shudder as she takes several long, deep breaths.

"Arthur?" Her voice is so quiet he almost has to strain to hear.

"Yes?"

"Does it get better?"

He presses his lips together before replying. "In time."

Ariadne has noticed their connection, and draws her hand close to her body. He smiles very softly, rising from his seat.

"I'll be in touch, Ariadne. Goodnight."

"Goodbye, Arthur."

He touches her shoulder briefly, before leaving her alone in the dark.

The next day she checks out, returns home with her totem, and waits.


	2. Chapter Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So it's definitely the most unoriginal plot ever created, but I think we all realize that there's only so many places one can go after the film. I mean, the whole thing was just a mental roller coaster. I guess what I'm saying is that I hope it's my delivery that makes this...stand out somewhat.

She didn't realize how hard it would be to go back to  _reality_ , back to normal things like rent and class and coffee shops. Ariadne buys (not rents) a new apartment with more room, relishing in this one luxury she allows herself with her copious amount of money. She sets aside the amount necessary to finish school and sees that she still has enough to last comfortably for at least a year. Probably more.

Professor Miles is (understandably) understanding of her lapse in work, even going so far as to ask if she's doing alright. Ariadne responds in the affirmative. She's overwhelmed with the need to ask about Cobb, but restrains herself. Instead, she covers the walls of her apartment with designs and sketches that refuse to leave her mind until drawn out. Most of them can only exist elsewhere than solid ground.

At least it's somewhat cathartic.

Ariadne has also taken to carrying her totem with her everywhere. That too, is comforting. As she drags herself to (fitful) sleep each night, the weight in her hand is reassuring. She returns to a steady, stable routine, and it's only inside her mind that she isn't exactly as she was the day she met Dom Cobbs. She can't let go, unhealthy as that is.

When she buys a new scarf she thinks of Arthur, when she hears a laughing English accent (sparse as they are), Ariadne looks up expecting Eames. When she sees a large, white van she is reminded that she never got a chance to thank Yusuf for keeping them all alive (only to throw them over the bridge and into the river, but still.) Ariadne silently thanks Saito when she pays for the rest of the semester, but can never look at Professor Miles ( _Cobb's_ _ **father in law**_ _)_  in the same light. She's pretty sure he doesn't her, either.

Almost eight weeks pass before she's startled out of Mal's fury by the shrill ringing of her phone. Putting a hand to her heart, Ariadne watches her bishop on the nightstand before answering.

"Hello?"

" _Ariadne. It's me."_

"Arthur?" Ariadne sits up, now fully awake. "What is it?"

" _We have a job. Well, a prospective job. Saito is coming in with the details tomorrow. Are you in?"_

Was she? The architect lets her gaze flicker to the dozens of broken, impossible designs littering her room. "Yeah. I'm in." She listens as he inhales, waiting for some kind of warning or reprimand. But nothing comes.

" _Alright. I trust you remember where the warehouse is?"_ She smiles to herself. Of course she did.  _"Tomorrow. Eight."_

"Thank you, Arthur." It comes out before she has time to ponder the multitude of meanings. "Goodnight."

" _Goodnight, Ariadne."_

Her last thought before succumbing to sleep again is how long he's been back in Paris.

**.a.**

Ariadne is up long before eight, trying to quell the flutter in her stomach by taking her time with the morning routine. She blow-dries her hair with care (which she usually just forgoes most days), letting her natural waves settle onto her shoulders. Today's scarf is an inky blue, detailed with wispy, abstract silver designs. Despite all this effort, the architect looks remarkably similar to how she did on the first day of 'work.'

There isn't really anything she can do about that, she reasons, and heads out into the cool Paris morning. It takes her about fifteen minutes to make the journey from her new apartment building, and in her head she decides that no, she did not consciously make that decision. She did not decide to move closer to the warehouse, closer to the job, closer to the dreams.

In retrospect (when she'd thought of returning there) Ariadne knows that it was probably empty. There were probably no chairs, no desks; no signs that five people had spent weeks working there. But now there's another job, she's curious (albeit somewhat wary) of what she'll find now. Will things really be so different without Cobb? She sincerely hopes not.

Standing before the old, rusted door, Ariadne pauses. The nervous flurry in her stomach returns, and she grips the bishop inside her jeans pocket before knocking. Arthur, looking also remarkably similar to their first meeting, appears with slicked back hair in a light shirt and dark pants, a perfectly straight, dark blue tie around his neck. They match. Ariadne almost laughs. The sight of him is a bit of a relief. She isn't sure what she would have said to Eames or Yusuf. Or even Saito.

"Morning," she says, realizing they've been standing there, looking at each other. He smiles, and then his face recedes into seriousness.

"Morning. There's actually something I'd like to talk to you about before we go in."

She waits expectantly. Arthur exhales, and it's in this moment that (despite his unfailingly calm expression) Ariadne knows he misses having Cobb around, if only for the fact that he could be counted on to order and be followed.

"I know why you want to do this, and you know why I'm hesitant to let you."

Ariadne nods silently. Arthur watches her carefully, his dark eyes calculating. "Before I let you do this, I need you to promise that you'll listen. No matter what, if I tell you to do or not do something, I need you to swear that you'll listen without question. Understand?"

She nods again. "I promise."

Looking reassured, the point man steps aside. The blaring familiarity of the warehouse envelops Ariadne in a rush of excitement. Despite everything, she knows that she loves this. The dingy lawn chairs still rest in a ragged circle in the centre of the room, and she's pleased to find her workspace untouched. The large couch, on the other hand is a pleasant surprise, as are the two men currently occupying it.

"Eames! Yusuf!" Both men glance up, and the architect is unable to curb the smile on her lips. "It's good to see you both."

"Ah, the prodigal daughter returns." Eames is grinning as he draws Ariadne into a quick embrace, planting a stubble-filled kiss on her cheek. She's startled, but not uncomfortable. Yusuf on the other hand, just smiles, clasping one of her hands in both his own. She tries to communicate the depth of how much she's missed them, despite the connotation of what they had to endure.

"Nice couch."

"It's about time we sat in something comfortable," defends Yusuf, and Ariadne laughs. "It's a futon, too."

"Point taken." She turns back to look at Arthur, standing at his desk several feet away. It—like him—is immaculate, orderly, so unlike the ever ravaging hurricane of ideas that litters her own workspace. "When is Saito getting here?"

Arthur glances down at his watch and then up at the door. "Any minute now." She can see a muscle twitching in his jaw; in this line of work, time was essential. But, as always, the point man is correct. Not thirty seconds later, knocking is heard.

"Got it," says Eames, bounding towards the entrance with all the enthusiasm of a small child. Ariadne stifles more laughter as Arthur crosses the room to stand beside her, in better view of the door. She turns to look at him.

"Why does it seem like Saito is always the one hiring?"

The barest of smiles brushes across his face. "This isn't actually him, technically. It's an associate of his."

She 'oh's noiselessly. Eames reappears, leading Saito (why did everyone look exactly the same?) and a decidedly younger man, who looks about Arthur's age (whatever that is). He wears a dark grey suit of obviously high quality, bringing out the sharpness of his blue eyes. The man is smiling, although it comes across as more of a pompous smirk (in Ariadne's opinion.) At her side, Arthur stiffens.

Saito opens his arms in a gesture of introduction and welcome. "My friends. It is good to see you all again." Ariadne is somewhat surprised to realize she's kind of glad to see him, too. "Please allow me to introduce—"

"Connor."

The muscle in Arthur's jaw is practically leaping. The woman at his side glances from him, to 'Connor,' and back. Even within his perfectly tailored suit, she knows every muscle in his body is tense, taut like a coil ready to spring. Arthur's face however, is still deceiving calm, unless discounted by the way it had frosted over like an unforgiving winter. Unconsciously, Ariadne reaches into her pocket to grasp the bishop.

"Arthur." Connor's smirk has turned into a sneer. Everyone in the room has caught onto this sudden tension, but to their credit, every team member still looks perfectly impassive. "I guess the rumours are true. Best in the business. But where's Cobb? Surely you two haven't broken up the dynamic duo."

"Retired,' the point man replies curtly, obviously not in the mood for pleasantries. "Did you come here with a job offer, or just for small talk?"

Saito steps in swiftly, to Ariadne's relief. "Mr. Black here would like to request your services in the extraction of information from a rival businessman."

"And that business would be...?" prompts Eames.

"Weaponry," is the reply. Connor's eyes travel over the rag-tag team, descending swiftly onto Ariadne. "My my, Arthur. I wasn't aware that business could be mixed with pleasure on the clock." His growing smile causes her gut to squirm and hairs rise on the back of her neck.

She bristles, opening her mouth to tell him exactly where he can shove that idea of his, but stops when she feels Arthur's arm brush ever-so slightly against hers. She rocks back on her heels, eyes alight with fury.

"Ariadne," says Arthur coolly, "happens to be our architect."

"Oh?" Connor's eyebrows raise, his eyes quickly betraying interest. "Well then. Beautiful and ingenious. Just where do you find them nowadays?"

The disgust rises like bile in her throat. Connor's eyes glitter as his smirk widens. "Down to business, I suppose. David Michelson has been trying to best me since before I came into 'not so legal' business transactions. Now, there are rumours floating about he's come into possession of some very rare stuff, things you can only get overseas, deep under the table. I'm hiring you to find out exactly what he has in his bag of tricks."

It sounds simple enough, although after her first job Ariadne figures everything will sound simple in comparison. There is a long pause as the team digests this information, and Saito speaks again.

"Of course, Mr. Black is willing to pay whatever sum you deem fit, to be wired upon proof of success."

Eames's gaze flickers to Arthur, who nods imperceptibly. The Englishman voices his price, sounding almost like a challenge. "One million. Each."

They all take a somewhat twisted delight in seeing Connor's gaze falter. "Very well then. Mr. Michelson and I will both be attending a formal function at the Champs Élysées Plaza in two weeks time. I expect my answers the following day."

He says nothing else, sweeping away as Ariadne glares at his retreating back. Saito looks back at them, something like remorse in his gaze.

"I am sorry. I was unaware there was...history." Seeing the lack of reaction from the team, the man takes his leave. "Goodbye. I wish you all luck and thank you for everything you have done."

He too disappears, and Ariadne releases her vice-like grip on her totem. "What was—" She turns to Arthur, only to find him gone. Ariadne whips around, catching only a glimpse of the point man as he vanishes through the back door of the warehouse. She moves to follow, but catches Eames's gaze and the shake of his head. Effectively stopped in her tracks, Ariadne just frowns, taking one last look at the door before moving to her desk to figure out where to begin.


	3. Chapter Three

After fifteen minutes of staring at the door and getting nowhere with ideas, Ariadne drops her pencil with a sigh of frustration. From the couch, Eames waves her over. Yusuf has disappeared to check in back home. She crosses the room and sits beside him, trying not to read into Arthur's still empty desk. She wonders where he could have gone.

"Don't worry, darling," says Eames reassuringly. "He'll be back soon enough. We do still have a job on hand, after all."

He had a point. Arthur was nothing if not dependable. Ariadne turns her totem over and over in her hand. "Am I missing something?" she asks suddenly, turning more fully to look at the forger. "Or was I just imagining all that tension?"

After a moment, the Brit shakes his head. "No, you weren't imagining it."

Ariadne waits expectantly for some kind of explanation, sensing Eames's hesitation. The man sighs. "Cobb was the best in the business, you know that right? He and Arthur were...in a league of their own, before and after they met Mal."

She nods, believing it fully.

"Did you know Cobb learned almost all he knows from Mal's father?"

"Professor Miles?" Although the connection was not lost on her, it's still somewhat stunning to hear her suspicions being confirmed. No wonder Professor Miles knew exactly the kind of architect student Cobb would need. Ariadne allows herself the small rush of pride, glad to not have disappointed her favourite teacher. Eames nods, clearing his throat before continuing.

"Well, like your Professor Miles, the story of Arthur and Cobb is somewhat of a legend in the extraction business."

"Legend huh?" echoes Ariadne, smiling at the image of grown men sitting around a camp, their faces flickering in firelight. "And how does this legend go?"

"Just like Cobb, Arthur also had a teacher. A guide, someone to teach him how to dream share, and what it was to be concise, detailed; a good point man really, even though Arthur had never technically been point for an extractor before. Mitchell Black is Arthur's Professor Miles."

"Black?" Her brow furrows as the architect tries to keep up. "You mean—"

"As in, Connor Black's grandfather."

Well, it was safe to say she hadn't been expecting that. Ariadne looks at Eames in disbelief. "But what about Connor? Why would his grandfather teach Arthur and not him? He obviously knows what we do."

The forger's features twist into somewhat of a grimace. "See, that's where things supposedly got a little dicey. You're right; Mitchell Black did teach his grandson the tricks of the trade, same as Arthur. They were, by all accounts, equal in nearly every respect. Eventually, Cobb came around looking for a point man to work with. He put them both through their paces as they say, and eventually it was Arthur who came out on top. No one's really sure what happened of course, and soon after Connor Black went into more...easily lucrative businesses."

"Weaponry is easier and more lucrative than extraction?" Easier perhaps, but this one job would give Ariadne more than she could possible make in years. Eames shrugs, his attention suddenly caught by something over her head. Arthur has returned. His dark eyes are steely, and the architect finds herself becoming quickly worried. She knows that look; that intensely forced focus.

She's seen it in Cobb.

"Eames," calls Arthur, striding over to them with impatient steps. "Find Yusuf and head down to that hotel. Find out what this function is that we're all going to have to make an appearance at."

"Yes sir," the forger quips, not staying to catch the point man's frown. "Back in a jif." He's gone within moments, leaving Arthur and Ariadne alone in the warehouse. She shifts her weight back and forth, wondering what to say, or do.

"Arthur?" His visibly irritated gaze finds hers, and she tries not to balk under it. "Are you alright?"

"Fine," he all but snaps. Ariadne flinches, but stands her ground. He's obviously and rightly upset. She's not going to hold that against him.

"Is there anything you want me to start on?"

Arthur shakes his head. "Come with me. We're going to visit an old associate of mine."

She only dares to think of the name inside her head. "Who?" She hates how meek she suddenly sounds, and her dislike for Connor Black only deepens.

If he has noticed this sudden change in her, Arthur doesn't comment. Instead he makes his way outside. Ariadne has to scramble to catch up, throwing her bag over her shoulder. He glances over his shoulder, opening the door to his car for her upon her arrival. She smiles slightly at this display of chivalry. It seems very Arthur. He doesn't look at her when he starts the car, or even minutes into their foray onto Parisian streets.

She isn't sure if the brief, pained expression on his face is only her imagination, but it's what she remembers right before he speaks.

"We're going to visit Mitchell Black. My mentor."

**.a.**

Standing in the lobby of Black Industries, Ariadne tries not to shift uncomfortably. She's incredibly underdressed. Arthur merely has to nod at the receptionist before they brush past her, despite her gaping. Standing in the elevator alone is decidedly awkward. They have twenty five levels to go.

"I'm sorry, Ariadne."

She cocks her head. A small frown mars his lovely features, the creases on his forehead indicating his frustration. "What for?"

"What I said. I shouldn't have snapped at you."

Ariadne gives her head a small shake, smiling at him. "It's okay. You were upset."

"Still," Arthur's eyes are troubled. "It was wrong of me."

"Hey." The architect puts a hand on his arm, giving it a light squeeze. "I know you'd never mean to hurt me. Please, don't worry about it. We have bigger things to think about."

Her effort is rewarded with a somewhat strained smile, but a smile nonetheless. Ariadne is pleased to note that the clouded look in Arthur's eyes has also abated slightly. Moments later, the elevator dings, and the large doors slide open. The space before them is large, imposing, and the stares they are greeted with makes Ariadne reach inside her pocket. Just like in LA, Arthur takes her elbow and steers her away from prying eyes.

"So..." begins Ariadne quietly, feeling suffocated by the silence. "Mr. Black was your mentor?" At Arthur's nod, she continues to fill the quiet. "Do you...do you keep in touch?"

"We haven't spoken in six years."

"Oh."

She's surprised to hear a faint chuckle from above her head. Arthur looks down at her with that kind, patient smile she knows so well. "It's okay to be surprised. You get used to not keeping contact with the people you work with once you stop working with them. You never know when being attached to the wrong person can become a liability."

While Ariadne can point out the gaping emotional hole in this logic, she tries to let it slide.  _Tries_ , being the operative word.

"Doesn't it get lonely?" she blurts, trying not to think of the way she's never seen or heard of any of them going home to anyone. Her face flushes as Arthur fixes her with that calculating stare. She can tell she's about to be scolded, can see it in his eyes because loneliness is part of the job. She should know that by now. Instead, his eyes flicker back to the door they've stopped at. He knocks. But that can't be the end.

"Which is part of the reason why I—"

Arthur's sentence is cut off however, as the large mahogany doors swing open to admit them. A man dressed in a dark suit nods at the point man, who nods back. Ariadne trains her eyes forward. She's itching to demand answers to this...this Arthur who commands attention without so much as opening his mouth. Unexpectedly, the architect is hit with a rush of self-consciousness. She stops in her tracks, causing Arthur to pause in mid stride beside her.

"Ariadne? Everything okay?"

"No everything is not okay," she hisses, knowing that it's Arthur, with his designer suits and impeccable hair and flawlessness, and he won't understand. "I'm about to meet your mentor, your teacher, the man who taught you everything you know and I look like a starving college kid."

"But you  _are_ a college kid. Maybe not starving, but..."

He's grinning. He looks so much like Eames just then that Ariadne wonders why they don't get along more. Glaring, she smacks him. Arthur laughs lightly, catching her wrist in a gentle grip. If she wasn't so furious, Ariadne would have been glad he seemed to be over his altercation with Connor.

"Relax, Ari. You look just fine."

_That_  stops her. She freezes, only then noticing just how close they are. Arthur's dark eyes are lit with that infuriating amusement as he releases his grip and steps back.

"If it helps, his wife loves scarves. He's sure to notice yours."

Ariadne touches her neck, flushing. "Fine. I'm still mad at you."

He just smirks, placing a hand on her back and leading her into Mr. Black's office. The man sits behind his large, beautiful desk, watching them with twinkling eyes. Blood floods her face as Ariadne realizes he had to have heard every word. They stop, and she suddenly feels as though she's been sent to the principal's office. Mitchell Black certainly gave his grandson his eyes, but the elder man's hold nothing but kindness and wisdom. She is reminded very pointedly of Professor Miles, and resolves right then to never lose touch with him.

"Arthur." Mr. Black rises from his chair, crow's feet crinkling around his eyes as he smiles widely. "My prized student. It's good to see you again, my son."

Arthur reaches over to grasp the man's hands in his. His own smile is wider and more genuine than Ariadne's ever seen. A tingle of respect and admiration crawls up her spine for Arthur's mentor who can make him smile so, as well as set him on the path that would eventually come to cross with hers. Here before her is another person she has to thank for the world in which she now lives.

"And who is this lovely young woman?"

Ariadne now has serious doubts that Mitchell and Connor Black are related. She shifts back on her heels, forcing her eyes to Mitchell's. His smile is warm and reassuring, just like she imagined her own grandfather's (who had both died before she was born) would be.

"This is Ariadne. My architect, hand-picked by your friend Professor Miles."

The use of the possessive article is not lost on anyone, except  _maybe_  Arthur himself. Ariadne forces the blush from her neck, focusing instead on her manners. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Black."

"Oh, please my dear. Mr. Black is my son. Call me Mitchell, and the pleasure is all mine. Please, both of you sit." She nods, taking her seat next to Arthur in the two chairs facing him. "A student of Miles! Architecture, I presume?" Ariadne nods again, and Mitchell beams. "Wonderful man, Miles. And Arthur is right, you know. I do love that scarf, as would my wife. It's just beautiful. Where on Earth did you find it?"

Glancing at Arthur whose lips quirk encouragingly, Ariadne describes the small store on a corner close to her apartment. Mitchell takes a pen and jots it down.

"Wonderful. I had been running out of ideas for our anniversary, and I'm sure Alice has never heard of that place."

"And how is Alice doing, Mitchell?" asks Arthur, looking so comfortable that Ariadne would almost be willing to leave without him.

"She's just as amazing as she was the day you met her. Now," The man leans forward in his chair, bringing his elbows to rest on his desk. "What can I do for you, Arthur? I hardly think this is purely a social visit."

"Unfortunately not," his former student concedes. "My team and I were approached today by Connor. He has a job for us, and I was wondering if you knew anything pertaining to...what exactly Connor aims to get out of this."

A long pause follows, as Mitchell gazes at them thoughtfully. "Arthur, is Dom no longer working with you?"

Arthur stiffens, just barely. "No, sir. He is indisposed."

"Ah." The elder man nods in understanding. "Do you know how I knew? The point man almost never speaks. His job is to listen, to observe, to see even the most minuscule of details. But now that you have no official extractor, I suppose the job of coercing secrets falls to you, does it not Arthur?"

For the first time since their reconnection, Ariadne is unable to read his expression. After a beat, Arthur just nods. Ariadne looks from him, to Mitchell, and back again with a sense of déjà-vu.

"Unfortunately, or fortunately, depending on how you see things," continues Mitchell, "I really have no ties with Connor or his businesses, whether they be of the legal sort or not."The muscle in Arthur's jaw begins to move."However, I don't believe I have to tell you to tread with caution, Arthur. You have both grown up, and grown smarter. You are both capable of great things, you and Connor, and that ability may lead you to some dangerous places."

His serious expression screams Arthur. Or maybe Arthur's is a reflection of his? Ariadne doesn't have time to ponder, as Arthur begins to rise and she hastens to do the same.

"Thank you for your time, Mitchell."

Connor's grandfather smiles widely again, nearly dispelling the tension of seconds before. "Thank you Arthur, for dropping in on an old, bored man. I do hope you'll return sometime and catch up with me."

The point man nods, and Ariadne musters up a smile when Mitchell's attention returns to her. "And Miss Ariadne, I sincerely wish I were even ten years younger, to be able to experience the wonderful worlds you can undoubtedly create. Do keep an eye on Arthur would you? Make sure he eats."

She's incredibly tempted to laugh, holding onto her smile instead. "I'll do my best, sir." Ariadne glances at Arthur, who, to her utter surprise, is  **blushing** _ **.**_ Just barely, but it's there. She can even see a small smile tugging at his lips.

"Hold onto this girl, Arthur," says Mitchell as he stands to see them off. "I think she's a keeper."

Suffice to say, both architect and point man journey back to the warehouse with a lot more colour to their faces.


	4. Chapter Four

"Everyone, meet the mark: David Michelson; twenty-seven, owner and CEO of the Michelson Projects. His company, like Connor Black's, finances and supplies weaponry to the country and its' allies. Whether all of those weapons are legal...well I suppose we'll find out, won't we?"

Ariadne and the team are spread among the couch and lawn chairs of the warehouse, planning. Arthur looks at Eames, who clears his throat. "This function at the Champs Élysées is supposedly to celebrate the growth of the economy as of late. It's incredibly VIP; invitation only, and the amount of security is going to be enormous. All the movers and shakers of business in Paris are going to be there, along with several from countries all around the world. It's looking like your classic stuffy business party so far, except for one thing."

A pause, in which Eames's expression grows into the grin that they'd all come to associate with something awful.

"Well?" prompts Yusuf, "Spit it out, man."

"As a throwback to not-so modern times, the dancing, and yes there will be dancing, will be done in the way of cards for the women, to be filled by gentleman callers."

"Wow," Ariadne manages, pushing hair behind her ears. "Someone's getting creative."

"And," continues Eames, "the lovely lady with the most filled dance card at the end of the night will receive a lovely dinner for two at the best restaurant in town."

"Lovely," Arthur deadpans. Ariadne holds in a snort of laughter. "How is this relevant, exactly?"

The forger falls silent, turning to look at the architect next to Yusuf on the couch. Arthur's eyebrows fly up, as Ariadne takes to staring at them all in turn, having caught on.

"Oh, no. No way. I don't dance."

"I don't think you have a choice, darling." Eames looks far too gleeful. "As you're not coming into the dream with us, it's the most obvious way to get the mark alone. What man could resist your womanly wiles?"

Ariadne only hears part of that statement. Her frown whirls to Arthur. "What do you mean I'm not coming into the dream with you?"

The point man is unmoved by her glare, as always. "This," he says, tossing another glossy photo on top of David's, "is Josh Michelson, David's brother. They are supposedly extremely close, despite the fact that Josh lives in America. Eames goes in as Josh, while I play the dastardly evil villain who threatens Josh's 'life' if his brother does not tell us exactly what kind of toys he's been keeping. You Ariadne, as Eames said, are our way in. You get David to ask you to dance, and  _persuade_  him to join you in a room upstairs."

The architect has to swallow her revulsion. She opens her mouth, but Arthur is not finished. "And since you are going to be the last person he interacts with while awake, don't you think it odd if you appear in his dream?"

He has her there. This logic does nothing to appease her frustration. Yusuf is silent through this exchange, knowing that all he has to do is book another room, just in case. "I still can't dance," she points out, more sullenly than anything. Arthur smiles, seemingly enjoying this too much.

"Don't worry. You'll learn."

**.a.**

Several days later, Ariadne picks at her model of an imaginary city. This will happen in an eerily similar vein to level one of the Fischer job, although this time she can be certain there will be no trains barrelling to strike them in the middle of the street. Arthur has made a call to Saito, who could secure only three invitations to the business gala he would also be attending, as it were. Which really is fine, considering the fact that the mark would never need to see Yusuf, which really made it all the safer for them in the long run.

It's late in Paris. The only light in the warehouse comes from Ariadne's desk lamp, Arthur's desk and computer, and the moonlight streaming in from the large windows. With a sigh, Ariadne puts down the model, knowing that there's little more she can do. Both Arthur and Eames have been inside the dream with her, and know every detail. Glancing up at the mostly empty warehouse, she stifles a shriek. Arthur stands before her desk, silent like a ghost. Or a projection in a three piece suit. His jacket hangs on the chair behind his desk.

Her totem nearly rolls off her desk. Convinced and angry, Ariadne can only glare. "Arthur! You scared me."

His lips twitch. "I'm sorry," he says, not sounding sorry at all.

"What are you still doing here?"

Arthur's lips twitch again. "I could ask you the same question."

Ariadne shrugs. "Adjustments."

The point man nods, crossing the large room to the small stereo that rests on a table by the lawn chairs. Their Kicker. Arthur clicks a button (play presumably) and music she doesn't recognize slowly envelops them.

"Come here."

"Arthur, what are you doing?" she asks, exasperated at this vague turn in his character. He just smiles, beckoning her.

"I'm not going to stop asking until you come over here."

Sighing once again, Ariadne does as bided, making her way over to him. He leads her gently towards the most open portion of the warehouse, the deep corner beneath a window that is now bathed in moonlight. "Are you going to tell me what's going on now?"

He takes her right hand in his own, raising her left to sit on his shoulder. "Seeing as I can't be seen with you at the Gala, it's going to be Eames who parades around with you on the floor." Arthur's other hand slips to her lower back, tugging her ever so slightly closer to him. "So, if I can't dance with you then, it's only fair that I get to teach you."

Ariadne is too dumbfounded to do anything but follow as he begins to lead her around the floor. His posture is rigid, and she does her best to straighten her arms against his. Feeling somewhat awkward, she stares at the pristinely polished ends of Arthur's shoes, and thus feels a little more dejection at the ragged condition of her favourite pair of sneakers. Ariadne barely notices when Arthur's hand slips from her waist, only to catch her chin and raise her eyes to his.

"Relax, Ari" he says with the same (laughing, kind) expression on his face as the first time, and even the same amused inflection. She can feel herself blushing into the roots of her hair. "You know, no one wants to dance with a woman who can't even hold eye contact."

Bristling at the challenge, Ariadne defiantly holds his gaze for the remainder of the song to the next, marvelling at the softening of his features. "Why do you call me that?" she asks suddenly, on something like their ninth turn around the room. Arthur's brow furrows.

"Call you what?"

This is suddenly the epitome of embarrassing. "Ari." It comes out like an exhale, so quiet that he would have had to lean forward if they weren't so close. Her eyes drop for the briefest of moments before flicking back to his, before she can change her mind. Her face flushes, and if she wasn't so bothered by the way this bothered her, Ariadne would have noticed the dust of colour in Arthur's cheeks.

"Well," Arthur begins slowly, looking as though he's seriously pondering his answer (which he is). "Sometimes you just don't—sometimes you aren't a Mistress of the Maze. Sometimes you're just...you."

Stunned, Ariadne can think of no reply. Arthur smiles very softly down at her. "I can stop, if you want. Calling you Ari."

Still unable to speak, she just shakes her head. "No, no," she gets out finally. "It's okay. I um, I kind of like it."

Arthur's lips quirk, and she blushes deeper. "Good."

Ariadne suddenly realizes that the music has stopped. Arthur slows their steps with care and stops, releasing his firm grip. There is a sudden tension in the room that she can't place, and she quickly becomes somewhat flustered.

"Thanks, Arthur, for the lessons." She practically barrels over to her desk, grabbing her bag and totem and keys. "I'll see you tomorrow."

"You're not going to walk home at this time of night, are you?" Arthur's expression goes from bemused to concern. That defaulted, serious poker face is making its return. Ariadne shrugs.

"It's alright; I do it all the time during school."

The point man's small frown deepens. "Well not anymore, you're not. I'll walk you."

Knowing this is one of those futile arguments, Ariadne just falls into step beside him as they lock the warehouse doors. She smiles brightly, stretching her arms over her head and taking in the cool night air.

"How long have you lived in Paris?"

Taking this random conversational question in stride, Ariadne replies "Four years."

"Are you close with your parents?"

She shakes her head, wondering where this could possibly be going. "Not really. I moved out as soon as I could, and left for Paris when I applied to school. We never really got along in the first place."

"What do you think they'd say if they knew what kind of work you do?"

Ariadne shrugs, glancing at her companion. "They'd probably tell me I'm crazy. Or stupid. Or both. What's with all the questions?"

"Just curious," Arthur replies with his default expressionless face. She wrinkles her nose, displeased.

"Is Arthur your real name?"

"Yes," he says, without missing a beat.

"Do you have any siblings?"

"Nope."

They continue this way, trading facts and pieces of their lives that had, thus far, remained as far from the job as possible. Ariadne is almost disappointed as they finally arrive at her apartment building. Arthur of course insists on walking her up to her door.

"Thanks for walking me, Arthur." She seems to be doing that a lot lately. Thanking him, that is.

"You're welcome, Ariadne. Sleep well." He turns to go, but just before he can, the architect is unable to stop one last question from falling from her lips.

"How long has it been? Since you dreamed?"

He pauses, not turning to look back at her when he says "Six years."

Moments later he's turned the corner and disappeared.


	5. Chapter Five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I listened to 'Flowers of the Field' by Sky Sailing on repeat while writing this chapter.

Three days before the gala at the Champs Élysées, Ariadne has become incredibly anxious. On her first job she'd been able to go in with the team (after some well founded arguments with Cobb of course) and seen for herself whether or not things would work out. And despite everything, they did eventually. But now...but now she'd be stuck in reality, having to wait for the timer to stop.

Or, for one of them to die inside the dream. There's no evidence that David Michelson knows of extraction, or even dream sharing. Nonetheless, Arthur and Eames have agreed to go in under the assumption that he did indeed know, and that his projections would be trained to fight them. Being over-prepared is better than not being prepared at all. For her part, Ariadne is ready. She's danced (all girly and innocent-like) with Arthur, Eames, and even Yusuf, so much so she can practically waltz in her sleep.

But then, as Ariadne prepares to head home and face her phantom dreams, something occurs to her. Something so horrifying that she drops her bishop into the warehouse floor, and all her pens follow in a clatter of noise. She jumps with a small shriek. Seconds later, Arthur and Eames appear at her side, guns drawn.

"Ariadne, what's wrong?"

"N-Nothing," she stammers, reaching to pick up her totem. "I um, I just realized something." Eames, seeing no danger, steps away, and mutters about ridiculous architects and their nerves.

"What?"

"Er, it's nothing." Ariadne has just realized how ridiculous her plight is. Arthur on the other hand, will have none of it.

"Come on, Ariadne," he coaxes, relaxing his grip on his gun and stowing it away. "Tell me."

She looks away, down at the floor, and mutters something Arthur can't understand. "What was that?" There's laughter in his voice.

"I don't have a dress."

"Oh." Arthur's small smile widens. "Is that all? I'm sure you have—"

"No, Arthur." She whirls around to fully face him. "You don't understand. I don't have a dress. I literally don't  _own_  a dress. And I don't just need a dress, I need shoes, and—"

"Ariadne. Ari. Hey, calm down." The point man grabs her shoulders, stopping her wild shaking. "I have an idea. Go home, get some sleep, okay? Tomorrow I promise you'll have a dress."

All Arthur gets in response is a raised eyebrow. His features twist in amusement. "Don't you trust me?"

While she's completely dubious as to how he's going to pull this off, Ariadne nods. "I trust you."

For what feels like a long time they just stand there, his hands on her shoulders, staring at each other. The smile slides off Arthur's face, replaced with that intense seriousness she calls his 'Point Man Face.' She can feel a blush rising up her neck, but Ariadne is unable to break their gaze. Suddenly the air is thick with a current that she doesn't understand. Arthur's eyes seem darker than usual, unreadable (to her frustration.) Unbidden, her mind flashes back to that hotel lobby.

' _Quick, give me a kiss.'_

She hasn't thought about it in weeks. But now there it is, in the forefront of her mind. Arthur's face looks exactly the same; that seriousness, that intensity, even in the act of something so intimate...It's getting hard to focus. Ariadne swallows with a degree of difficulty, wondering why exactly they're  **still staring at each other**.Ariadne opens her mouth, unsure of what exactly to say, but it turns out she doesn't have to, because Eames has spotted them.

"You two alright over there?"

They spring apart faster than you can say 'jump!' Arthur clears his throat, straightening his tie, while Ariadne looks very determinedly at the scuff mark on her shoe. Eames's soft chuckle makes her ears burn. "I'll see you kids tomorrow."

And just like it seems to happen more and more frequently, Arthur and Ariadne find themselves alone. Biting her lip, the architect raises her eyes to the point man's. His is expression is somewhat strained as he rubs at the back of his neck with one hand. She's never seen him do that before.

"I'll um, I'll see you tomorrow."

She can see him open his mouth to object, but she smiles quickly. "Still light out, Arthur." The orange light of sunset shines through the warehouse windows. Arthur's tense shoulders relax just slightly as he nods in concession.

"Goodnight, Ariadne."

"Goodnight." It's barely above a whisper. Ariadne clutches her totem in her hand, rushing out and placing it onto the level surface of the garbage that sits on the curb.

' **thunk** _._ '

**.a.**

The next morning, Arthur calls before she can leave and asks to meet at the most popular shopping street in Paris. She sees him almost immediately as she crosses, and a small smile appears on his face. This better not be what she thinks this is.

"Out of all the people I know," she declares once standing before him, "You're the last person I'd think needed to shop."

"This trip isn't for me. In fact, I won't even be here while  _you_  shop." There is a hint of mischief in his voice that Ariadne's only ever heard in Eames. It's somewhat frightening. Ariadne's eyebrows fly together as she frowns.

"What did you do?"

He doesn't say anything else, turning instead to watch the street. The architect's frown deepens. "Arthur?"

"You'll see," he says cryptically. Ariadne sighs, crossing her arms over her chest in irritation. Arthur raises a perfect, amused eyebrow. "I thought you trusted me?"

"I'm beginning to rethink that statement."

He laughs; a  **real** laugh sounding from deep within his chest, and just for that Ariadne almost forgets that she's mad for being kept so in the dark. A dark town car sidles up to the curb, and she is only a little surprised when Arthur reaches out to open the door. A woman bustles out, her hair a sleek silver with age and eyes a brilliant green. She smiles so widely Ariadne's afraid her face may crack, before she crushes Arthur to her chest.

"Arthur, my  _darling_. Oh, just look at you, grown up so handsome." (Ariadne smothers laughter in her hand.) "Mitch tells me you've been doing so well for yourself. I am sorry to hear about Dom. It's a shame you two are no longer together."

Mitch?  **Dom**? The architect has to make a conscious effort to keep her mouth closed as Arthur nods and smiles. (There it is again; that genuine, full smile that makes Ariadne want to time travel back six years and meet this Arthur whose eyes shined so bright.) Her mind whirs as she tries to figure out who this woman could possibly be. Arthur, having disentangled himself from the woman's grasp, reaches for Ariadne's wrist and tugs her closer to him.

"Ariadne, I'd like you to meet Alice Black, Mitchell's wife."

And suddenly it all makes perfect sense. There isn't much she can do as Alice hugs her tight, tighter than she can ever remember being hugged before. "Oh my dear! Mitch has told me so much about you. He said you were beautiful but he didn't do you justice! I'm so glad Arthur's found someone like you."

Flushing hotly, Ariadne chances a look at Arthur, who (to her mild sadistic amusement) is also the tiniest pink in the face. Her heart swells for the Blacks, who seem to exude love for Arthur from the inside out. "We um, we work together," she manages to spit out. "It's an honour to meet you, Mrs. Black."

"Nonsense dear, it's Alice. Mrs. Black makes me feel like an old woman. (Architect and Point Man keep carefully straight faces.) We're going to be good friends you and me alright?"

Feeling overwhelmed by this intensely positive spirit, Ariadne just nods. Arthur clears his throat and she turns to him, wondering if he can tell exactly what she's going to do to him once this day is over. Judging by the nearly invisible smirk, she bets he does. "Well Alice, I know you and Ariadne have a lot of work to do. Spoil her for me alright? She needs to shine."

"Leave it to me, Arthur." Alice assures him with a strong nod. "You won't even recognize her in two days. She'll be the woman of your dreams."

Swallowing, Ariadne isn't sure of the slight pressure against her wrist, which she's just realized Arthur still holds. The man nods (expression flat once again), before looking back at her.

"I hate you," she hisses. That infinitely amused smile makes a brief appearance on his face.

"I'll see you at work, Ari."

This time, she definitely feels his thumb brushing across her pulse point. The hairs on the back of her neck rise. She stares up at him, so many questions in her eyes. But he has no answers, for Arthur's already released her. After a goodbye to Alice, Ariadne loses him immediately in the sea of people.

**.a.**

"Alright Ariadne, where would you like to start? Cut? Colour? Designer?"

It takes several breaths for the architect to formulate a comprehensible reply. "Um well..." Alice looks so expectant, so eager, that Ariadne deflates somewhat. "I honestly have no idea where to begin. I'm not one for dressing up, really."

"Ah, but you have fabulous taste," Alice declares, fingering the scarf around her neck. The young woman immediately recognizes it from that corner shop she loves so much. "And you're a beautiful girl. We'll find something, you'll see."

"I love that colour," Ariadne blurts, pointing at the scarf. "The purple is so deep. It's beautiful."

"Perfect." Mitchell Black's wife smiles encouragingly. "Do we like the gold accent as well, or would we prefer silver?"

"Gold, I think."

"Good girl." Alice rises from her seat in the coffee house with a grace that Ariadne hopes one day to be able to achieve. "We have our heading! Shall we, Ariadne?"

She can't help but smile. "We shall."

As they travel from shop to shop (and Alice thrusts the scarf at the poor unsuspecting saleswoman) Ariadne forces herself to remember than she can, in fact, afford it all. The idea is so ludicrous in her mind still, even after all this time. She tries on dress after dress as Alice grabs necklace after necklace and earrings upon earrings. It's all a bit overwhelming, but Ariadne pushes the job to dominate her thoughts. She has to do this right. It's the only thing she can really truly control now.

"Last stop," says Alice many hours later. They've already found earrings and dangerously high heels, but the dress in that perfect colour still eludes them. Ariadne drifts off as Alice claims the attention of both women working in the store. She flips somewhat dazedly through the racks, her thoughts consumed with the details of the dream set up.

Michelson will be waiting on the corner in front of his office building for his car. 'Josh' will be driving, with Arthur in the second front seat. Arthur will point the gun at 'Josh's head and demand answers. If all went according to plan, they'd only have to drive around the block once before they get what they want. In, out, done, and they'd be back after five minutes. Ariadne can only hope it will be that easy.

"That's it! It's perfect!"

Successfully startled out of her dark inner musings, the architect looks down at the dress in her hands. The colour is deep, rich, screaming of the forties; high-end establishments and midnight cigarettes. It is cut off the shoulder with a very subtle sweetheart neckline that, after holding it up to her body, Ariadne learns will only show the smallest hint of cleavage. It will also end just above her knee. Ariadne is relieved. While she wants to play her part well, she refuses to become even less than the person she is. The inviting of David Michelson to 'her room' is unavoidable. Looking like a total tramp, on the other hand, is not.

Alice practically throws her into the dressing room in excitement. Ariadne takes a deep breath to calm her hands, which she realizes are shaking. The dress slides over her head with all the ease of a waterfall, hugging her body like an old friend. She eases up the zipper as far she can before stepping out to face the critics. Alice is silent for the first time since they've met. Both saleswomen also look a little surprised, although Ariadne suspects they're paid to look that way every so often.

"Well?" she demands, suddenly nervous. "What do you think?"

"You," says Alice slowly, rising from her chair, "are  _sensational._ " The woman whirls around rifling through the half-dozen bags they've currently amassed. "Hang on, don't look yet. We need the complete picture." Dutifully, Ariadne accepts the shoes thrust at her, averting her gaze from the full length mirror by sitting in a chair facing the opposing wall.

The heels are easily twice as high as anything she's ever worn before, and the petite architect stands up somewhat unsteadily. ("You need to break those in, dear." Alice advises.) Ariadne shoves the dainty, dangling golden earrings into their respective places and lets Alice pull half of her hair up behind her ears and fix the zipper. She can feel the butterfly clip sliding into her hair, and the tension against her head as it sits where it should. Four gold bangles dangle from her wrist.

"Okay," hums Alice in a sort of breathless whisper. "Turn around."

While she knows it's silly to think that she's suddenly become an entirely different person in this getup, Ariadne can't help but appreciate the reflection looking wide-eyed back at her. The dress makes her feel older, more sophisticated, like a girl who could really get any man she wanted. Her shoes, black and sleek and stiletto make her legs look miles long. With her hair pulled back, the deep purple of the dress only makes her brown eyes burn brighter.

"Purple was a good choice," she says finally after finding her voice. In a gesture that makes tears burn in Ariadne's eyes, Alice takes her hand and rises to stand beside her. She looks once at her young charge and again at her reflection, smoothing back a stray hair with the gentleness only a mother possesses. Alice's smile is soft, proud, looking so akin to loving that all Ariadne wants to do is curl up into a ball and sob in her arms.

"Now I know that you and Arthur work together, but whoever you're wearing this for will be knocked off their feet."

The architect takes a deep, steadying breath (and wonders how this dress can ever be free of tomorrow night's tainting.)

"I hope so."

**.a.**

_It's been a while since she's been inside her own dreams without fear. Ariadne builds her ballroom slowly, mentally dividing the walls and extracting columns that rise into graceful arches, attaching to become the ceiling. The golden marble floor is lit by hundreds of candles that hover in the air (in Great Hall Harry Potter fashion, of course). Impossible large French double doors open onto a balcony overlooking nothing but sky. Every visible star is amazingly bright, the moon so large and so close she can almost reach out and touch it._

_Her dress too is golden. Simple, elegant, somewhat non-descript because she's really doing this for the room. Actually, she's breaking in her shoes. At the moment they're gold too, but identical in every other way to reality's. She walked all the way home in her real ones, nursed her blisters, and then made the journey to the warehouse in an attempt to collect her thoughts. The case just sat unused and unsupervised, so Ariadne takes hold of this rare opportunity and let herself dream for the sake of dreaming._

" _Evening, Princess."_

_She jerks around, heart in her throat. She nearly trips. Breaking her ankle in dream world would hurt just as badly as in reality, so she settles instead for striding over to a smirking Eames and smacking him as hard as she can._

" _What the hell, Eames! What are you doing here?"_

" _Well, I can't let such a lovely lady stand in a ballroom all by herself, can I?"_

" _You know what I mean. What are you doing in my dream?"_

_The Englishman shrugs. Unlike on Arthur, the action is practiced, easy. "I finished my scout early. Saw you all alone and..." His smile widens. "I was curious."_

_Projections dance all around them, (thankfully) unaware that someone else has disrupted their host. Ariadne blushes hotly before resuming her glaring. "Well you've seen. Now you can go."_

" _Ah, not so fast, darling." His grin is infuriating. "What's with the fancy shindig?"_

_It's Ariadne's turn to shrug. "I'm practicing in my shoes," she says honestly, knowing that a lie will just keep him here longer. Eames's laugh is so abruptly loud and long that everyone begins to stare. Ariadne smacks him again._

" _Shut up! Do you want to be swarmed by my subconscious?"_

_He quiets at this. There is a pause as Ariadne's projections begin to move again. She exhales slowly. Eames, seemingly unaffected, just keeps giving her that ridiculous smile._

" _What?" she demands in irritation. He straightens his shoulders and back, offering her his hand._

" _If you're going to break in your shoes, you might as well do it properly."_

_Having no argument, Ariadne allows him to pull her closer without resistance. They dance to strings and a single, haunting piano. She isn't sure how it happens, but one by one her projections disappear, leaving her and Eames alone in flickering candlelight._

" _So," drawls the Brit after minutes of silence. "What's the deal with you and Mr. Point?"_

_She almost trips again, but a surprisingly gallant Eames holds her up without difficulty. "There's no deal. Nothing's going on."_

" _Are you sure about that?"_

_Well, she would have been sure before he asked her_ _**that** _ _. She pauses a beat too long. "Of course I am."_

_He surprises her yet again by falling silent. They've long since stopped waltzing, and sway in a gentle circle in the centre of the floor. Ariadne can feel her pulse getting louder and louder inside her chest._

" _I'd be careful if I were you." The remark draws her out of conflicting thoughts. Her grip on the dream is going to slip soon. Ariadne looks up at Eames who, for the first time she can remember, looks intensely serious. Like Arthur. "You of all people know what it means to fall too deep."_

_She's too taken aback to do anything but nod. The music stops. There's only minutes left. Eames reaches out to touch her cheek, briefly and barely. Maybe he is a projection after all._

" _Goodnight, Princess. Tomorrow's your big debut."_

_In a handful of strides he's out on the balcony, balancing precariously on the ledge. With a final, ridiculous salute, Eames drops into nothing. Ariadne waits out the final moments of her dream, watching as the candles extinguish one by one and the marble floor crumbles beneath her feet._

_Her last thought is that her feet don't hurt at all._

**.a.**

Arthur passes Eames on his way into the warehouse. The forger has a smug grin on his face, one that the point man usually attributes to the other man having received a woman's affections. Frowning in distaste, he sweeps past without a word. Ariadne is alone in the room, sitting on the couch and staring at the silver case that holds their one real tool on the job. Her totem sits overturned on the table beside it.

"Everything alright?" he asks, his voice carrying perhaps too loudly in the otherwise silent space. Ariadne jumps and he immediately regrets it. She relaxes upon finding his gaze, nodding.

"Fine." Her smile is brief.

He can tell there's something more (perhaps pertaining to Eames's smirk) but chooses not to press, asking instead "And how was your trip today?"

Ariadne's face lights up, to his relief. "Fruitful."

"I trust you found everything you needed?"

She nods. "Alice is wonderful." The affection in her voice stirs something deep inside Arthur's chest. Swallowing, the man quirks his lips before proceeding to his desk, sliding out of his suit jacket and loosening his tie. He, Eames and Yusuf have scoured every inch of the hotel, finding no hint of bugs or hidden cameras. It's a good sign.

"You know Arthur," says Ariadne, sounding drowsy. "You're not really alone, you know? I know it seems like it and I know you're lonely sometimes but they...they really love you."

He stiffens, tightening his grip on the die in his pocket. Arthur spins on his heel and strides over, fully intent on informing her that no one's loved him in years and yes he is in fact  **alone**. But all the words slip from his lips unsaid, because Ariadne has fallen asleep. She lays curled up on the couch, her bishop clutched in one hand. Even though he knows he shouldn't, Arthur reaches out and brushes a fallen hair behind her ear.

The architect sighs against his hand and he freezes. Then she turns her face away, allowing him to pull back without a sound. He can feel a blush rising up his neck, and rubs at it with one hand. What to do? The peace on her face is something he's longed for with such desire that the idea of waking her pains him. Instead, Arthur retrieves his suit coat and drapes it over her lithe form. He takes silent steps out of the warehouse, taking a last look before locking the door behind him.

Twenty-five minutes later he's settled into a lawn chair, newly showered and dressed, wondering exactly how early he'll have to have been 'up' to wake before she will. Arthur casts the die eight times before falling asleep.

It lands six up every time.

 


	6. Chapter Six

Soft cotton sheets, clean soap, and a distinctly male...musk.

The (delightful) smell is the first thing Ariadne is aware of as she wakes, groggy and disoriented. The second thing she realizes is that she did not dream. That in itself is comforting, but that comfort is nearly eradicated upon the conclusion that she is definitely  **not** at home in her bed, where she should be.

So why is her totem falling?

Ariadne jerks up in panic, regretting it immediately as she tumbles from the couch with a curse. Some falls with her; large, dark, tailored...a suit coat; the same suit coat that emits that delicious scent. Why the heck is she on a couch with a suit coat? The architect forces her body to calm enough to enable her eyes to scour wherever it is she currently is. It looks suspiciously like the warehouse.

And in the corner desk farthest from the door, looking at her with that maddening little smile is someone who looks suspiciously like Arthur. He  **waves**. "Morning," he says pleasantly (too pleasantly), while Ariadne's only functioning response seems to be an open mouthed stare. "Sleep okay?"

Open, close. In, out. She knows she's breathing, knows that falling off the couch hurt like a bitch (but that test doesn't apply, now does it?) and she also knows that these are in fact the clothes that she wore while shopping with Alice. The solution dawns on her so quickly that Ariadne almost snaps her fingers in triumph. Ignoring maybe-or-not projection Arthur, the architect folds the jacket carefully and drapes it over her arm (because real or not it looks expensive) and makes her way to her desk.

Grabbing a pencil, Ariadne begins to draw. On her notepad appear a dress, shoes, earrings, bangles, and a butterfly clip. Frowning down at her box of coloured pencils, she grabs the first two colours that come to mind. A deep purple is scratched into a patch next to the (exquisite) dress, while gold runs in a haggard line over all the accessories.

Success. She remembers.

"Are we awake yet?"

He sounds like reality Arthur, with that never-pretentious patience and that simply-amused amusement. He looks like him too. His white sleeves are rolled up to his elbows and his deep red tie is perfectly straight. Ariadne watches her totem fall one more time for good measure.

"Yeah," she says, as if she's been asked it was supposed to rain. "We're awake."

Arthur's lips quirk. "Good to hear."

"So..." begins the architect slowly after a pause, "I fell asleep last night, didn't I?"

Her companion nods, still almost smiling. Ariadne's face falls somewhat.

"I didn't say anything...weird, did I? I do that sometimes right before I fall asleep."

The point man inhales and she braces herself for mortification, feeling her face screw up in a grimace.

"No, you didn't."

And...never mind. Sighing with relief, Ariadne looks up at Arthur, still not quite at ease. "You didn't..." She stops, (not noticing the nearly invisible shift in his expression) catching the words before they can slip from her mouth, because of course he didn't. He didn't stay with her all night. "You didn't leave me a super expensive suit jacket, did you?"

His face betrays him. There is the briefest flicker of surprise in his eyes, before that not-quite-full smile settles again. "How can you be sure it's mine?"

Ariadne rolls her eyes in great sarcastic exaggeration. "Oh, come on Arthur. Who other than you wears designer suits to a rickety old warehouse just to sit at a desk all day?"

She has him there, and they both knew it. Arthur's smile tugs a little harder at the corners of his mouth. "I didn't want you to get cold," is all he says finally, causing a lovely dust of pink to brush across her cheeks.

"Well, thank you." is what she manages. "It was very sweet of you."

While her mind races to simultaneously memorize the jacket's smell and freak out that said jacket belongs to Arthur, Ariadne hands the garment back. The man accepts it, nodding.

"You're welcome."

They're staring at each other again. Remembering quickly what happened last time they'd done that, Ariadne clears her throat, glancing down at her watch. "Oh geez is that really the time? I need to get home and get out of these clothes. What time—"

She stops again, her face flushing white. Tonight is the night of the job. In the daze of the morning, she'd nearly forgotten the gravity of the situation. Ariadne swallows and tries again. "What time are we meeting?"

To his credit, Arthur pretends not to have noticed. "Eames and I are meeting at six. I'm picking you up at six thirty, and you are meeting your date at quarter to, and will be through the hotel doors just after seven. Eames will arrive ten minutes later, and I five minutes after him. He is also going to be your first dance partner as far as we're concerned, in order to assess the situation inconspicuously. We know that the mark will be arriving later in the evening, but no one knows how late, so really all you have to do is keep dancing."

"You make it sound so simple," the woman drawls dryly, before fully processing everything he's said. "Hang on. You're  _picking me up?_ I have  **a date**? What?" Her voice rises an octave with each successive question. The point man however, is unfazed, already strapped tight into execution mode, which also means utter professionalism.

"Alice has requested you be at your apartment at four thirty to get ready for your 'date'. I am picking you up so one: you don't have to walk back here dressed and two: because Alice can't know where the warehouse is. Your 'date' (the stress on the word indicates a fake date, to Ariadne's relief) is Saito's nephew, who knows this is a cover for something he's not allowed to know about, and accepted because his uncle told him he'd have a dazzling girl on his arm for most of the evening." (Cue a red architect).

"What do you mean you  **don't know**  when the mark is arriving?" Ariadne demands in a back track, suddenly unnerved. "I thought you knew everything."

Something like a self-deprecating laugh makes its way from Arthur's lips. "Not everything, Ari. (Despite herself, the architect can feel herself relax a touch.) From what we can tell, there's some sort of big deal going on for the Michelson Projects tonight, which of course will delay the mark. It may even be the sort of deal Connor is looking to nose his way into."

Nodding, Ariadne calms herself down the rest of the way. In the long run, this will probably help them earn that million. In all honesty, she is somewhat glad at the moment, although she knows that at seven o'clock all she'll want is to be opening the door to 7182 for Dave Michelson. Perhaps, she thinks almost wistfully, she might even enjoy herself for a little while. But then Eames barges into the warehouse followed by Yusuf, the former grinning too widely and the latter looking too serious.

If anything, the idea was nice while it lasted.

**.a.**

"What time is it?" asks Eames loudly several hours later. Ariadne has gone home and returned in fresh clothes, knowing that a shower will be counterproductive to the evening's process. Across the room, Yusuf replies "Four" without even looking up from the silver case. He's checking to make sure everything is top notch, which is incredibly reassuring for the only female member of the team.

"Okay, four," the Englishman continues, throwing an obvious look at the architect, who is cleaning up her things to leave. "So why is she is leaving at four to get ready for a gala that starts at seven? What is she going to do for three hours? Grow her hair out?"

Ariadne laughs, tossing her bag over her shoulder. "Well we can't all be like Arthur (who looks up at the sound of his name) and have the ability to go from bed-head to perfect in like, half an hour." No one notices the point man that stays very still as Ariadne crosses to the door. "Female beauty takes time, gentlemen. Patience, which none of you has. 'Cept Arthur, of course."

Eames rolls his eyes, muttering "Mr. Perfect" under his breath. Yusuf just smiles to himself. Arthur is eerily silent. Taking one last look at her rag-tag gang of men, the only woman in the room smiles. "You know," she says quasi-conversationally, "I think the only good thing about this particular job is seeing you and Arthur all dressed up. If I have to suffer through this gala, then so do you."

Even Arthur cracks a small smile as Ariadne laughs again at Eames's indignation, ducking to avoid a throw pillow thrown at the door before slipping away. She takes her time walking home to enjoy the sunshine, and the cool breeze that kicks up the crumbling autumn leaves at her feet. Sighing, Ariadne resolves to push the job and the danger and Connor Black from her mind until six o'clock, and at least let herself enjoy being spoiled by Alice.

At precisely four thirty, Alice comes knocking. Ariadne then decides it's where Arthur inherited his unnerving punctuality. A man in a dark suit (who looks a lot like that first man in a dark suit from Black Industries, but maybe that's her) stands in the hall outside her door. He nods at her, and she nods back, taking a mental page out of Arthur's book. Security, she reasons. Alice is Mitchell Black's wife after all, and they are everything to the company.

"Ariadne, my dear. How  _are_ you? How are those shoes feeling? Do you want to eat before we start?"

The questions come in quick succession, so fast that the architect has to pick and choose which to answer (Good, not bad, not really, and no she does not own an eyelash curler). The first thing Alice makes her do is have some toast and ginger-ale ("To settle your stomach for the night.") while she goes off to run a bath. Reminding herself of her resolve, Ariadne just submits herself to Alice's directions, and realizes that having your hair washed for you is one of the most relaxing things a person can experience.

She is quiet and complacent as Alice bustles around her, handing over creams to smooth over her skin or a section of hair to hold up while the elder woman works a magic that Ariadne wishes she could bottle up to help her in times of need. They're down to her final hairstyle, her skin glowing healthily, toes and fingers and eyebrows painted and clipped and plucked to perfection (or as close as one can get).

"I was thinking, Ariadne," Alice informs her serenely, as the two stare together at her reflection. "Your hair would also look fabulous up, something like this maybe..." To demonstrate, she pulls the dark locks into a complicated looking twist at the nape of her neck. After she pulls out a few strands, Ariadne is surprised at the softness of her newly framed face, and the graceful delicacy of her neck.

"We could even...hand me the butterfly, would you sweetie?" Alice clips it in with her free hand, just to the right of centre against the knot. She holds up another mirror in her hand so Ariadne can see the back of her head. "Braid and twist a few pieces here and there...make it stand out, you know? What do you think?"

"It looks great," she says, still amazed at how much it feels her reflection has changed. Alice purses her lips, frowning.

"Oh, I can't decide which I like better, up or half up. They both point out your lovely bone structure. Do you know if this boy has a preference?"

Good question. In reply, the architect holds up her phone, to which the other woman nods eagerly. She dials from memory, smiling inwardly at how much she's going to enjoy this conversation. He answers on the first ring.

" _Ariadne? Everything okay?"_

"Up or down?" she asks without preamble. "Hair. Does he prefer up or down?"

" _Oh,"_ The tension leaves Arthur's voice in mere moments. " _Well I'm not too sure. Hang on."_

Now twice as amused as she was before, Ariadne smiles again at Alice, mouthing "Thinking." Her mind travels back to the photos of David Michelson, renowned player, with too many different women to count. Weren't most of their hairstyles down over their shoulders?

" _Up."_ The serious tone of his voice makes her want to laugh.

"Are you sure?"

" _Always am, Ari."_

Another smile slides onto her face without her noticing. "Thanks. I'll talk to you soon, okay?"

" _Sure."_

With an excited clap of her hands, Alice sets to work, while Ariadne busies herself by smoothing invisible creases on her dress. The barest amount of makeup ("Natural is best, you know") is applied to her eyes and cheeks and lips, and the architect is glad to note she can't even feel any of it. When she's finally allowed to look at the finished portrait, it's safe to say that the once-architecture-student-turned-illegal-dream-architect can only see pieces of the person she'd been at four o'clock this afternoon.

"Alice, I don't know how to thank you."

"Oh it was nothing, dear." The woman waves a hand dismissively. "I haven't had a chance to do something like this in years, since both my girls are long grown up now. Not that you're not grown up, of course."

Ariadne lets out a light laugh. "Right." She glances at the clock and a burst of nervous butterflies take flight inside her stomach. "He should be here any minute."

"I'll get out of your hair then, darling." Carefully the women embrace, and when they pull apart, the youngest finds herself holding back tears.

"Don't do it!" Alice grins as she bustles out in the same chaotic fashion she'd arrived. "You'll ruin your face!"

The resulting laughter almost sweeps the butterflies away. At last Ariadne is alone. Turning back to her room, she picks up the jacket and clutch on her bed, which holds her totem, lip gloss, phone, and two hotel keys. There is also a fake ID. Tonight she is Arielle Peters. She can't be without the bishop, especially tonight. It's one of these times that Ariadne wishes that more dresses had pockets. She tips the totem on her coffee table once for luck (because despite everything she still believes in a little luck) and stows it away again, comforted by the weight in the small bag.

Keys! Where were they? Groaning, Ariadne scours her apartment, finally spotting them on the desk inside her room. Three steady raps on her front door signal Arthur's arrival. "It's open!" she calls, tossing her keys into her tiny gold clutch. Her bangles 'clink' together as she makes her way out again. Arthur stands in her living room with his hands behind his back, and suddenly every insecurity Ariadne's ever had comes rushing to the surface.

"Um, hi."

They're doing it again. Staring at each other. Arthur in a tuxedo is at least fifteen steps above a normal shirt and tie, although Ariadne has always been (secretly) impartial to his three piece suits. His hair is slicked back as always, and his eyes are vibrantly dark. She can't read his expression, which only serves to make her more nervous. He's smiling (softly) though, which puts her somewhat more at ease.

"Hi." She can hear him exhale.

"Alice um, did a great job," Ariadne offers up, her heart thumping uncomfortably in her chest. Arthur nods appraisingly.

"That she did."

This alone is enough to send her face flushing. Arthur's lips twitch. "Nervous?"

"Yes," she says simply, unable to find it in herself to lie (that, and she's really bad at lying to him). The point man is at her side in three confident steps, and offers her his arm with a small smirk.

"Don't be."

And because she trusts him that much, she isn't. At least, not until a long time later.

**.a.**

"You look great."

Saito's nephew Kira has an open, honest face and smiling eyes. If they weren't in this particular situation at this particular time, Ariadne may have even found him attractive. Instead, she smiles and gives the attendant her coat.

"Thank you. You too. Very sharp."

Kira laughs, fully and unselfconscious, and in this moment she is jealous of him. "After about seven of these, the tux kind of loses its' appeal."

Involuntarily, her mind flashes to Arthur, standing in her apartment like...like the figment of a dream; the kind of dream you wished you could hold onto forever, and revisit whenever you pleased. Startled by this concept, the architect can barely manage to quip "For you, maybe."

It's kind of nice, she realizes, for someone to not pry into her life, yet remain interested all the same. "So you're a friend of my uncle's?"

So much for that. "Yeah," Ariadne replies, trying oh-so-hard to sound casual. "I got to intern at one of his smaller businesses, and eventually got to meet him. Apparently I impressed him or something, because he's been recommending me for amazing work ever since."

It's a sliver of the truth. "Just so you know," she says carefully (because even though he knows basically exactly what's going on she still feels bad) "I'll probably be kind of everywhere tonight. I need to get a lot of dancing in."

He nods. "That's what Uncle said. No worries, gives me a chance to scout all these lovely ladies who came with men twice their age."

She can't not laugh at that. "But you'll save me at least one dance, right?" Ariadne marvels at how easy this feels. The young man at her side smiles widely.

"You bet."

"So does that mean I can have her first?"

Both Ariadne and Kira turn to find Eames smirking at them, looking more refined and put together than the architect has ever seen. Wordlessly, she glances back at her 'date', who sends her off with a grin and a wave. The forger tugs her onto the floor, sweeping her into his arms as though they've been at this for years.

"You clean up nice, kid."

"You too, Eames," she retorts lightly. "I swear tuxedos look good on anyone."

"Careful Princess," the Brit warns with a slight leer. "I could very well drop you, you know."

"Right." Ariadne drops her voice to a whisper. "So everything's ready?"

Eames nods. "We're ready when you are." The innuendo is almost welcome in breaking the sudden tension. "Worried are we?"

She can't think of what to say to this other than "Yes," which causes Eames's smile to fade.

"Well, don't be."

It's here that Ariadne is convinced he and Arthur have been spending too much time together. She nods, but the Brit punctuates his statement by catching her eye. "I won't let anything happen to him, alright? Or you. Even the crazy chemist."

"What about you?" she demands (ignoring the implications of his order), quick on the uptake. "Aren't you going to keep yourself safe?"

"Aw darling, are you saying you actually care about little old me?" She smacks him for that one. Eames for the second time since she's known him is completely serious. "It's going to be fine. Don't you worry your pretty little head. You'll just have to bat your eyelashes, and he'll be falling at your feet, alright? Yusuf's champagne will do the rest."

Ariadne just nods, turning her focus onto the floor. She can see Saito dancing with a woman she presumes is his wife; she can see by the way their smiles light their eyes. She then realizes who she hasn't yet seen.

"He's blending in," Eames informs her quietly. "He's there."

Relieved, the architect smiles brightly and plays the part of a naive young girl. She can judge their number of turns around the room by the people she spins past, anchoring her vision. On the most recent turn, the doors of the ballroom have opened to admit a guest.

"Don't look now," orders the British voice above her head, "But our lovely employer just arrived. He's looking right at you."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a cliffhanger? *le gasp*
> 
> good thing you don't have to wait like those poor souls at ff.net did years ago ;)


	7. Chapter Seven

" _He's looking right at you."_

She stiffens. She can't help it. Ariadne knows it's wrong to judge people on first impressions, but the way Connor looks at her, and the way he looks at Arthur...it makes tense goose bumps rise on her arms. The architect concentrates on steadying her breathing as Eames continues to lead her around the floor.

"Can you keep him away from me?" she requests quietly, knowing that this is the first time she's ever asked him for anything. The knowing look in the forger's eyes makes her feel incredibly vulnerable. "He um, he kind of creeps me out."

"Sure thing, darling," he says, unruffled. "Now you just keep filling up that card, alright? You actually have a limited number of dances—"

"Twelve," Ariadne supplies helpfully, thinking of the index card inside her clutch she'd received upon entering. The Englishman nods.

"Right, and if all goes as planned your last one should be with the mark. And if it isn't, well I guess you won't be winning that dinner."

"What a shame that will be," she comments dryly. Eames chuckles. The familiar sound is comforting. "And the elevators are where?"

"Straight through those doors to the left of the entrance. Saito has men posted in that hall, so you shouldn't have any trouble going up. All others will be directed to the ones on the other side of this room, because yours will be  _out of order_."

Ariadne nods, filing that information away for later use. Yusuf's room is in the floor above, and they'd also bought the adjoining room to hers. Staying the night in rooms they'd paid for would only help to solidify their cover once Michelson woke up alone. She supposes that a night in a luxurious bed won't be so bad after all the work they've put into this.

"This is it, Princess," Eames announces as the music comes to an end, leading her back to Kira. "We'll line them up, you knock them down, and by tomorrow afternoon we'll be a million dollars richer."

Ariadne, true to her role just nods and smiles and watches as Eames disappears into the crowd, knowing fully he's scouring for another conquest.

"Friend of yours?" asks Kira as she sits down beside him at the bar and orders a glass of water. The woman makes a small non-committal noise.

"Co-worker. He just likes to flirt. A lot."

"Ah."

There's a pause and Ariadne takes a moment to collect herself and absorb her present situation. She can do this. She's going to be fine. The team is going to be fine, and she'll never have to see Connor Black again. Kira puts a hand on her arm and she starts, turning to look at him. His gentle eyes are concerned.

"You alright?"

She nods; smiling in what she hopes is a reassuring fashion. Her 'date' doesn't press, just takes another swig of the amber liquid in his glass. "So I was thinking."

"Hmm?"

"Since you're going to be such a hot commodity tonight," His smile widens at her derisive snort. "Shouldn't I hang onto you while I can?"

"Is that your weird way of asking me to dance?" Ariadne asks, raising an eyebrow. He ups her by raising both.

"Did it work?"

She laughs and takes his waiting hand.

**.a.**

Ariadne is pleasantly surprised to find herself having a good time, both dancing with Kira and chatting with him between the nearly a dozen different business men that Eames sends her way. The mark still hasn't shown up, and she still hasn't seen Arthur. They talk about their lives in that superficial way that can't get either of them in trouble, but the architect is still surprised at what she learns.

"You want to be a director?"

Kira grins almost sheepishly. "I actually want to be  _a creative visionary in the world of film,_  but yeah. Director would be pretty sweet too."

She can't help but smile back at his exuberant enthusiasm. A normal conversation is so refreshing. "And what do your parents think of that? You're in business, aren't you? Otherwise we wouldn't be here."

"True," he concedes, "But I think they'd be okay with it if I told them. I mean, the job was there for me after college so I just took it. I think it's Uncle Saito who'd need convincing. He's done so much for me in Japan...I wouldn't want to disappoint him, you know?"

Ariadne nods, feeling a stir of empathy for their previous employer. He had so much...she feels somewhat guilty for what he'd suffered during the inception of Robert Fischer. Speaking of her first mark, she'd seen him here too, not dancing, but mingling with the other non-dancing men. He hasn't seemed to notice her, and she prays she hasn't seen the others. It's been so long he may have forgotten, but she isn't sure she wants to take that risk. So, like Connor Black, he is on her list of People to Avoid.

"Yeah. But I think you should just try talking to him. He may just surprise you."

Kira smiles, his eyes becoming distant before refocusing on something closer. "Speak of the devil..."

Saito is headed toward them in steady and proper steps. "Miss Peters. I trust my nephew is behaving himself?"

Ariadne returns the gesture. "He's being a perfect gentleman. We've been having a lovely time."

"Wonderful. I was hoping to be honoured with a dance in your company as well." Crow's feet crinkle at the corners of his normally serious eyes.

"It would be my pleasure." She can't help her smile growing a little wider and hands over her dance card. Saito graciously leads her away, and holds her like a professional gentleman should.

"All goes well I hope?" he asks, quiet and serious. She nods. "Very good. Mr. Black was headed in your direction. I thought I'd better avert your attention."

"Um, thank you," Ariadne stutters in true surprise and gratitude. Saito's smile is brief but sincere.

"Your teammates are very protective of you."

Feeling her cheeks grow hot, the architect can't even think of a reply. She never saw them together. The man doesn't say anything else, and she finally finds the courage to speak, and out comes the first thing she can think of.

"Kira wants to be a film director."

Saito's eyebrows knit together in an expression of confusion. Worried she's overstepped, Ariadne tries to back track. "He um, mentioned it to me earlier."

"Did he now?"

"He doesn't want to disappoint you," she blurts, before she can stop herself. "He doesn't want to think he's disregarding everything you've given him."

Her dance partner's serious expression settles into something she can't recognize. "I wish to give him everything, to help him earn all that he deserves, but I never wished to stand in front of his dreams."

"You should tell him that." Ariadne doesn't know why she's dishing advice out to a man who probably could have cared less about her three months ago, but the inception has changed her. It has changed all of them. Proof of this seems to lie in Saito's nod of consent.

"Thank you, Ariadne."

Surprised at this use of her real name (and also that he actually knows it), she can only smile very softly. "If I had a shred of the family you do," she tells him, "I would do absolutely anything to keep them."

Saito's smile is once again brief, and this time filled with a wisdom that Ariadne will one day search to find. "As you should."

The song ends soon after, and the man inclines his head in goodbye before walking away. Ariadne puts a hand up to her chest, trying to wrap her mind around what's just happened. A real conversation with Saito wasn't exactly something she'd expected. Perhaps she should be used to the unexpected by now. Returning to Kira's side, she fingers the card between her fingers. There are two slots left, and no sign of the mark.

An anxious shiver crawls up her back. What now? Kira, sensing her distress, hands her a glass of water. She drinks, more for something to do than anything else. Her eyes scan the ballroom, littered with dancing pairs and stuffy business men. She thinks she sees Eames on the floor, grinning so easily that Ariadne wants to stalk over and shake him. Can't he see that  **the mark is**   **not here**? And  **where the hell is Arthur**?

Searching for reassurance, Ariadne pulls out her totem and tips it on the bar before returning it to her clutch. For once, she wishes it would stay up. In a dream, it wouldn't matter if the mark didn't show up. It wouldn't destroy everything they've worked for. In a dream she'd be able to see Arthur and his not-quite-smile and know that everything will be okay.

"Er...Arielle?"

She is tempted to whirl around and scream " _What?"_ But she doesn't. Demurely, slowly, like a lady should, Ariadne turns with a smile and a question in her eyes, only to be greeted by the cold, cocky eyes of Connor Black and his ever present (ever revolting) smirk.

She is going to kill Eames.

Kira looks from Ariadne to Connor, confusion scrawled on his face. She wonders if he can see her fear. "Do you know this guy?"

Ariadne opens her mouth to say "No," and then walk away as fast as she can. Connor is still standing there infuriatingly silent and smirking. He has her now. She turns to Kira to beg for another dance, because she  **is not** dancing with Connor Black. She doesn't get to do either of these things, however, as a hand grabs hers, simultaneously spinning and pulling her away from the bar and onto the floor.

Soft cotton sheets, clean soap, and musk assault her senses. Ariadne nearly collapses in relief as she raises her eyes to meet her saviour. Arthur's expression is decidedly grim, but softens as he notices her gaze.

"Thank you," she gets out, almost dizzy. She's shaking, she realizes, and the point man tightens his grip.

"I'm sorry," he says, sounding frustrated. "I looked away for a second."

She shakes her head, trying to relax. "I'm just glad you showed up when you did. But I thought—"

"The mark isn't here," he reminds her quietly. "And I wasn't about to let you dance with Connor."

The music begins to change, from a light jazz to a slower, melancholic piece. Such is the immense comfort in the mere sight of him, Ariadne doesn't resist as Arthur pulls her closer. In her heels, they are nearly the same height. She exhales slowly, trying to regain that sense of calm stolen from her. Arthur's right hand begins to press slow, gentle circles into the small of her back, and she can't help the shiver that rises up her spine before her entire body uncoils like a fallen string.

For the next minute, Ariadne allows herself to enjoy this moment with Arthur; this languid dance and soothing company, the gentleness of his eyes and the softness of his tiny smile. Her small break from seriousness and danger and work is cut short by his voice, low and soft in her ear.

"David Michelson just walked in."

It's as though someone flipped a switch. Ariadne is immediately tense again as Arthur dips his head so low she can almost feel his lips against her ear. "He's watching. Smile."

She does one better. A ridiculous giggle slips from her lips, and a blush immediately stains her cheeks. The point man's exhale of amusement brushes against her throat.

" _Ticklish,"_ she hisses, a smile still plastered onto her face. Arthur's grip tightens again, and the enormity of the situation hits like a slap in the face. "He can  **see** you."

"You're commanding his attention." he informs her, unfazed as always. This doesn't help.

"What if he doesn't—" she trips over the question. "What if he doesn't choose me?"

"He will."

"How do you know?" she demands, frustration creeping into her voice. She's staring out at the sea of unknown people, picking out Eames and Kira and Saito like beacons of light.

"Look at me, Ari."

Her face flushing, Ariadne's eyes find Arthur's. They're deep and dark and impenetrable, his expression so serious that she wants to look away. But she doesn't. She's looking right at him when he leans so close they're nearly sharing the same air.

"You are beautiful. He will choose you."

For several long seconds she stops breathing, and clumsily sucks in a breath, blushing hotly. They're still staring at each other, so intently that Ariadne can see it; the ghostly smile that quirks his lips so quickly that she doesn't even blink before it disappears. The music is falling into a decrescendo. Her time is almost up. She knows he can see the real, intense fear that overtakes her eyes.

"We'll be two minutes behind you."

"Promise?" she asks childishly, but unable to stop herself. Arthur nods.

"Promise."

They stop. Arthur takes her hand and leaning low, raises it to his lips. Ariadne's heart thrums painfully inside her chest. His lips are brief against her skin, soft and cool. His fingers brush the inside of her wrist, and the intimacy of the gesture nearly overrides her thought. And then he is gone, disappearing from her sight as though he'd never been there at all.


	8. Chapter Eight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the chapter where things start to get a little rough. I don't want to ruin anything for anyone, but at the same time I don't want anyone being uncomfortable or offended or anything like that. Let's just say that Ariadne gets into an altercation that leaves her somewhat scarred both physically and mentally for a time. If anyone is uncomfortable reading such situations, please look for STOP. It will appear, and you can skip down to END STOP if you so wish to skip the particular scene, and continue as normal. The situation will be explained at the bottom of the chapter in the author's note. I'm sorry I didn't mention this before, but well...I sort of go where the plot takes me.
> 
> Enough blathering. Please enjoy. :)

It takes Ariadne more than a few deep breaths to even  _begin_ to understand what's just happened. She puts a hand to her cheek and stares at the empty space Arthur's just vacated, feeling the warmth of her face.  _Calm down. Focus._

With one last ragged breath, Ariadne returns to Kira for the last time. She doesn't say a word, but somehow he knows. "I take it this is where we say goodbye?"

All she can bring herself to do is nod. Her fake dates smiles warmly. "Well, it was a pleasure meeting you Arielle. Although I get the feeling that's not your real name."

The architect shakes her head. Kira takes her hand and squeezes. "If you're ever in Japan, please look me up. I'll call you whatever you need me to."

Ariadne laughs kind of humourlessly, leaning over and planting a chaste kiss on his cheek. "Tell Saito when your first premiere is. He'll know where to find me."

He nods once, and like all other men tonight, walks away. The young woman sighs as she sits down and orders something stiff. The bartender hands her something wordlessly. She tosses it back, nearly coughing it all back up as it burns in her throat. The dull ache is masochistically comforting.

"Excuse me, miss?"

Her hand curling around the totem inside her clutch, Ariadne turns around to face the mark.

David Michelson's grey eyes seem less sinister than the likes of Connor Black, but their smiles are identical; confident, cocky, aggravating. His hair is dark and thick, carefully messy. "I was wondering you would like to dance with me."

Resisting the urge to roll her eyes in disdain, Ariadne offers him her most coy smile. "I'd love to." Just before she hands over her card, she catches sight of Arthur's steady print, scrawled as a name she doesn't recognize. It gives her hope anyway.

She takes David's hand and his lead, not resisting even as he holds her a little too close for comfort. She can't see the team anymore. Heck, she can't even find Saito in the crowd. Swallowing a distinct feeling of being terrifyingly alone, Ariadne concentrates on the mark, focusing her attention on him to keep interest.

"So, I never did get your name."

"David Michelson," he says. "Of the Michelson Projects. Do you know it?"

She's reminded very distinctly of a bird who puffs up to appear more impressive. "Oh, I'm afraid I don't," Ariadne tells him with a (falsely) apologetic smile. "I'm actually not in business. I just came with a friend. A night of fun."

"And will you be going home with this friend of yours?"

The architect has to take a moment to swallow her revulsion, before lowering her gaze and staring up at the mark through her eyelashes. "Not necessarily."

Michelson's smirk grows into something that makes her skin crawl. They keep dancing and Ariadne keeps thinking about how much she is going to kill a certain Englishman when this is all over. His name is on her card.  _David Michelson:_ weapons supplier extraordinaire; the mark. The man she is supposed to seduce far enough to slide a concoction of champagne down his throat that would keep him asleep long enough for Arthur and Eames to go into his dreams and come out with his secrets.

Yeah, she's really going to kill Eames.

"So..." The dance stops. He's leering at her. She has to try very hard not to wretch. "What do you say we take this down to my place?"

"I have a better idea." Ariadne doesn't look back to see if he follows to the bar, where her clutch still sits. As much as she'd been loath to leave her totem, she'd had no choice. She extracts a card and snaps it shut. It's a credit to everything Cobb and Arthur have taught her that the architect manages not to flinch, turning around to find Michelson  **right there**.

"Why don't we go upstairs to mine?"

**.a.**

She has to remind herself to ask the male members of her team how their sex can be so easily lured by more...earthly desires. The guards in the elevator hall had been unreadable, merely nodding just barely as Ariadne rises with the mark to the seventh floor. He's following like a dog promised a treat.  _Almost there._ His eyes are dark with lust, and she tries her best to be that flirty, ditsy, easy girl she isn't.

He's already shed his coat and loosened his tie the moment they've stepped through the door. Michelson reaches for her hand, but the architect manages to pull back at the last second.

"I just need to  _freshen up._  You'll wait, won't you?" He nods, obviously trying to appear less eager than he looks. "There should be champagne in the mini fridge. Please, help yourself."

With one last smile that she hopes she'll never have to use again, Ariadne slips into the bathroom, trying not to stare at her reflection as she listens for the telltale signs of a man tempted by alcohol. The cork pops, and glass clinks.

"You want some?" he calls, and she's reminded (relieved) that he never took the time to learn her name.

"Yes," she replies, forcing her voice to remain level. This is so close to being over she wants to scream. Ariadne listens again. It's quiet for what isn't more than a few minutes, but what feels like forever. And then, at last, she hears it. The small 'thunk' of a glass hitting the carpet, and she knows that her job is, at last, over. She steps carefully out into the room.

Michelson is dead to the world on the bed, slumped over as though a hypnotist had snapped their fingers to cause him to sleep. The architect takes a slow, deep breath, and begins to count. Exactly a hundred and twenty seconds later, the key lock opens with a beep.

The first thing Arthur does is lock eyes with her. "Are you—"

"I'm fine," she assures him. "Go."

Eames, true to his nature, just grins and puts a calloused hand on her shoulder before turning his attention to the mark. Ariadne averts her eyes as David Michelson is stripped to his underwear and tossed without ceremony under the covers. "Got that gloss of yours, darling?"

She throws it to him. "Is this really necessary?" Even the  _idea_  of sleeping with this man is nauseating. Arthur, looking over his shoulder, gives her what feels like an apologetic glance and nods. Her lip gloss (which she's never going to wear again after tonight) is smeared over the mark's lips, neck and chest.

"All this guy's going to remember in the morning is that he's hung over as hell and that you gave him the best night of his life."

She snorts. "Is that so?"

"Hey, do not question the awesome powers of Yusuf the Magic Man."

Ariadne can feel a bubble of relief building up inside her, and it comes out in the form of a giggle. "I'll try not to."

"Come on, Eames," Arthur interjects in nearly imperceptible impatience, opening the case and inserting the first IV into Michelson's arm. The forger nods, the humour of the moment forgotten. "Ariadne, could you set the timer?"

The architect nods, making her way over to the silver case on the floor. "How long? Five minutes?"

"Better make it ten. Just to be safe." Arthur and Eames exchange a look that Ariadne can only pin down as understanding. "Once we're under, go straight to Yusuf's. He'll come back down to give us the kick call."

"Okay."

Ten minutes will equal roughly two hours in the dream. Plenty of time, Ariadne reasons, to convince someone to tell you something if you're sticking a gun in the face of his best friend. She sets the time and looks back at the two conscious men in the room. "Anything else?"

Eames is giving a pointed look at Arthur, then at Ariadne. She looks between them. "What?"

The point man sighs and waves her over to the small end table beside the bed, on the side closest to the door. "You've never fired a gun before, have you?"

Stunned and confused, Ariadne just shakes her head. Arthur reaches over with gloved hands and pulls a small silver revolver from the drawer. As incredibly tempted as she is to back away from it, the architect remains rooted and stares. He hands it over gently. Ariadne holds it gingerly, somewhat afraid of it, but more afraid of dropping it.

"And what am I supposed to do with this?"

"It's just in case." Arthur reaches out and folds her fingers around the handle. "This," he says pointing, "is the safety." He flicks it back with a click. "It's off. You can shoot now. When it's on," (She likes the second click better) "You can't."

"...Okay?"

"Don't worry, Princess," says Eames cheerily. "When we get out of here, I can give you lessons."

Ariadne turns to Arthur, only half-joking. "Can I pass on those?" She sees that ghostly smile for a mere second.

"Alright Eames, let's go. We don't have all night."

They settle into a chair and the floor respectively as she replaces the gun. Eames leans his back against the bed. Ariadne crouches down next to the case, her finger poised over the button. "Ready?"

Both men nod. And just because she feels like someone should say something, the architect whispers "Good luck," before her finger connects and they fall into unconsciousness. She tips the bishop twice before getting up to leave. Ariadne takes one last look at her slumbering teammates before she unlocks the door—

Only to find one Connor Black standing on the other side.

**.a.**

For a very long time all she is able to do is stare. Ariadne grips her totem, knowing from its weight that she is, in fact, awake.

"What are you doing here?"

"Oh, I followed you," Connor replies, as explaining an answer to a test. "I just watched the numbers as the stupid guards tried to tell me that your secret elevator was out of order, and then listened for Michelson's grunting."

"What do you want?" Maybe this will result in something that isn't entirely obvious and (albeit disturbing) really beside the point. Their employer grins and steps forward, causing Ariadne to instinctively step back.

"You know Ariadne," he begins, entirely too at ease for comfort. "I really wanted to see you tonight. Dance with you, maybe? But your ridiculous team seems very...concerned with you. Thwarted every chance I got really. Even old Saito was in on it. That stunt Arthur pulled was quite rude, in my opinion."

This can't be going in any remotely positive direction.

"Did you know Arthur and I go way back? My grandfather trained us in dream-sharing, so we know all the same tricks. (Ariadne seriously doubts this) So you see, I know that changing the environment of the dreamers affects their environment inside the dream. Or, I could just pull the plug...and they'd lose it completely."

Connor keeps stepping forward and Ariadne back, until her foot collides with Eames's on the floor. And even though she's completely confused as to  _why_ Connor would want to change the dream (the guy's the one  _paying_ them to do this), the architect steps in front of her team, effectively blocking his path. He frowns like a child barred from his playthings.

"Why do you have to be like this, huh? Can't a guy just make things interesting?"

She doesn't move. She doesn't say anything, because Ariadne highly doubts that anything she could say will dissuade Connor from his weird, shady agenda. To her growing horror, the twisted smile slides from his face, only to be replaced with a dark frown.

"Move."

She doesn't move. Connor frowns deeper, and repeats himself. The anger can be heard in his voice, but the need to protect Arthur and Eames has overridden all rational instinct of flight. Ariadne opens her mouth, glaring.

"Go to hell."

**STOP**

Before she can even take another breath, Connor has grabbed her and thrown her painfully against the wall. Her head cracks against it, and for a moment she sees nothing but stars. The bishop flies from her hand and lands on the floor, not that he notices. Ariadne opens her mouth to scream, but closes it at the last moment. The last thing they need is to draw attention. Instead, she clamps her mouth shut and squirms as Connor steps so close their bodies are nearly being crushed together.

He takes both of her hands and pulls them over her hand, gripping her wrists in one of his hands and pinning them against the wall. His free hand brushes dangerously against the hem of her dress.

"Go ahead," he goads as she continues to struggle silently. "Scream."

Ariadne spits in his face.

Enraged, Connor brings his hand down on her face. Her head snaps to the side, and her eyes water. "Bad idea, little girl." He grips at her thigh so hard she whimpers. Panicking, Ariadne bucks as hard as she can, trying to worm her feet out of their awkwardly trapped position against the moulding. But then she sees a flash of light. She blinks, only to realize that the sudden cold pressure against her bare shoulder is the blade of a knife.

Connor's eyes are dark with something unrecognizable and terrifying. "Arthur was never a girl chaser," he tells her, as if this were a completely normal conversation. She can smell the alcohol on his breath very faintly. "He was always working, concentrating, trying to be better than me."

Ariadne tries to breathe, but it only comes in very shallow bursts. She presses her back into the wall, trying to get as much distance between the knife and her skin as possible. But Connor just leans closer, and presses harder. He turns the blade back and forth, the light reflecting off the ceiling. He seems to be mulling something over. Connor turns the knife over and over in his hand; it grazes her skin in a deadly caress. He presses harder and harder, until Ariadne thinks she feels the skin break.

"He's not as perfect as you think he is. I was just as good. I'm still just as good. No, I'm better."

She does not care about how perfect Arthur may or may not be. During Connor's rant, Ariadne's very slowly turned her foot, straightening it. The pain of standing becomes somewhat less. Her mind wanders back to the gun. She doesn't dare look at the bedside table, but she knows it's there. Just a few feet away. Thinking only of she refuses to let Arthur and Eames see this, Ariadne lifts her heel and slams it into Connor's instep.

He cries out, shifting away, and she wastes no time in diving across the room. The knife, pressed so insistently against her moments before, leaves a jagged line crossing her collarbone towards her chest. The pain of it flashes white behind her eyes, until Ariadne's hands collide with the table and she can see again. In her haste the table topples to the floor, but it doesn't matter now because the gun is in her hands and she's pointing it at Connor.

**END STOP**

Blood trickles into the hemline of her dress. Pressing one hand to her shoulder, Ariadne grips the gun so tightly in the other that her knuckles turn white. Connor Black's face is twisted into a sick grin. He drops the knife, holding up his hands in a gesture of surrender. The architect's chest heaves with the effort to stay upright.

"Listen up," she says quietly, but with a steadiness that surprises even herself. "I don't know what the hell you want with me, and I certainly don't know what kind of stupid beef you have with Arthur. But if you don't turn around and get the hell out of this hotel right now, I'll kick them both myself and you'll never get your extraction."

"Then you'll never be paid," he retorts, haughty even as he favours one leg. "You think you can play hard ball? I think you're bluffing. You'd never walk away from a million dollars."

Ariadne's eyes narrow. She reaches with her thumb and clicks off the safety. Connor's smile falters.

"Do you think I'm bluffing now? Or do you really think we're all just stuck-up, snotty, greedy assholes like yourself?"

He's sneering. "Feisty. I like it."

She has to swallow the bile that rises in her throat.

Straightening slowly, Connor backs out the door. Ariadne follows, watching until he is inside the elevator and watching the numbers as they fall all the way down to M. Blood thrumming inside her ears, the architect returns the safety and puts the gun on the floor. She grabs the CD player and fits the headphones onto Eames, closest to her. It takes several tries with one, shaking hand.

She tips her totem once, twice, three times. Clutching it and a key card in her hand, Ariadne locks the door before taking one last look at the destruction and closing it behind her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For people who skipped, Connor pins Ariadne to the wall and roughs her up somewhat, saying ridiculous things about how he is better than Arthur, despite the latter working so much. He has a knife, which ends up cutting Ariadne as she springs for the gun in the bedside drawer.


	9. Chapter Nine

_Something is wrong._

_It's evident the moment '_ Non, je ne regrette rien' _begins to play inside the dream. It's too early for their earlier set time agreement, despite the fact that Arthur and Eames had literally just finished with their extraction. It's not like Yusuf to be anything less than exact in everything he does. He and Eames exchange looks._

" _Do you have a plan?" asks the forger, for once not condescending or sarcastic. Arthur has to try very hard not to pace the street and thinks. There has to be a reason why their Kick call is early, because Yusuf is not sloppy. But what if taking themselves out too soon lands them in a very bad situation?_

" _We'll wait it out," Arthur decides firmly. "It's early enough anyway that even if we're...held at gunpoint or something, it's a few minutes extra to prepare for what could be out there."_

" _Whatever you say."_

_So they wait, and all the point man can think of is the condition with which Ariadne still works with them._

_Did she listen?_

Well, one thing's for sure; Ariadne is not here. Arthur rips the IV from his arm, not even wincing. His eyes rove over the room, getting narrower as they sweep from the overturned table, to the discarded gun, to the knife.

"Is that...is that blood?" Eames reaches out and picks up the knife with his sleeve. An intense pressure is beginning to build inside Arthur's chest as he lurches to his feet.

Fear.

"Take it. And the gun." Brusquely, the point man rightens the end table and snaps the case shut. There isn't any other sign of blood in the room. "Let's go."

To his credit, Eames doesn't ask questions. They just go, leaving an oblivious and now snoring David Michelson in the room alone.

**.a.**

Arthur nearly kicks the door open. Yusuf sits next to Ariadne on the bed. They are a careful foot apart. Her face is white and she carefully holds a cup of tea in her hands, which hits the carpet as soon as she sees him. A long pink line extends from her shoulder to several inches above the neckline of her dress.

"Arthur—"

"What happened?" he demands, more harshly than intended. The architect flinches. "There was a knife with  _blood_ on the floor. Who—"

"Arthur." Yusuf is on his feet, putting a barrier between him and Ariadne. Arthur has to violent squash the urge to knock him aside. "Please try to remain calm. She is unwell right now. She is in shock."

The muscle in Arthur's jaw nearly bursts with the tension. He looks at his architect who stares down at the cup, reaching down but pulling away as Yusuf sweeps it up effortlessly. She's shaking. "Ariadne..."

Her totem turns over and over in her hands. Her eyes are wide, frightened; mirror images of those he'd seen all those weeks ago outside the Los Angeles airport. Out of habit, Arthur casts his die on an end table before pocketing it. The thing about this time for Ariadne is that she was not waking up from a dream. She doesn't respond to her name, and the pressure inside Arthur's chest tightens even more.

"Would you like some more tea?" asks Yusuf, very softly. Ariadne shakes her head. The point man's head whips around to the chemist's (because why the hell won't she respond to  **him** ), who puts a finger to his lips and shakes his head slowly. Eames's expression holds nothing but a frown and brewing confusion. The young woman stares resolutely at the tea stain on the carpet as her three teammates just watch her anxiously.

"I need to get out of this dress," she says finally, and her small, meek voice makes Arthur want to punch something. Ariadne stands (shakily) and looks around the room, as if searching for something. "I don't have anything to wear I..." Her pitch is steadily becoming higher and more unsteady with every breath. Forgetting Yusuf's warning Arthur reaches out, hoping to steady her. She flinches away from him with a step. Dismayed and confused ( **hurt** ) the point man lets his arm dangle there for a moment before dropping it back to his side.

"Ariadne," he tries again. Nothing. The stain of blood on her hand and finger tips quickly tunnels his vision. "Ariadne. Ari."

There. He is relieved to see her eyes focus on him, still wide. He holds up one hand, discarding his jacket and bow-tie with the other. "Here." He unbuttons the white dress shirt to reveal cotton t shirt underneath, and extends the first out to her. His toes curl with the effort of staying rooted where he is. Ariadne looks at the shirt and then at him, reaching out, but jerking her hand away before taking it.

"I um, there's blood..." She holds her hand up to her face, turning her fingers for them all to see. A flash of the normal Ariadne—afraid to ruin his shirt—has Arthur closing his eyes, gripping at the fabric in his fist. Eames disappears into the bathroom, returning with a small washcloth soaked in water. Like the point man, he stays in one place as he holds it out to her.

"Here you are, darling."

She takes it from him, scrubbing at her hand until it is pink and raw. Only then does she take Arthur's shirt with care. Their fingers don't even brush. "Thank you."

He just nods, concentrating on keeping his expression neutral and softening the rigid lines of his face. The architect moves very slowly across the room before disappearing into where Eames had been moments before. Arthur counts very slowly and deliberately to twenty before rounding on Yusuf.

"What  **happened**?"

It comes out nearly a snarl, a statement more than an actual question. Very calmly, the chemist puts down the spoon he'd been holding on the small counter above the mini fridge. Steam curls up from a newly made cup of tea.

"She hasn't said anything. She came right in with that cut covered in blood and her totem and wouldn't tell me what had happened; only that she'd given you the call too early and what if it ruins the job?"

Arthur has never wished to be anyone on this job besides the point man; the reassuring presence, the producer, the man who knew every detail. And now he wishes he were someone else, for he'd have someone else from whom to demand answers. Eames is uncharacteristically silent for a long time.

"Someone followed us."

It's the only explanation. Aggravated, Arthur begins to pace. "But who? Who would we not have seen? We were up here even before she and Michelson entered the room."

"It takes longer to get to this room from the other set of elevators," Yusuf points out. "Most likely, you were already under when whoever it is arrived."

Of course this logic does nothing to assuage their irritation.

"She had the gun," says Eames. "It wasn't fired but she's the only person who knew where it would be. Getting a hold of it was probably the best thing she could have done. A knife doesn't stand a chance, especially if that safety's off."

"And whoever did this doesn't know that Ariadne's never used a gun before," Arthur continues for him. "I'd put down a knife too. But that still leaves one question."

"It was Connor Black."

Three heads spin in the direction of the voice. Ariadne stands before them, her hair down around her shoulders, nervously tugging at the hem of Arthur's shirt. She is not indecent, but all their eyes zero in on the large, purpling bruise on her thigh...about the size of any of their hands. Her makeup is rubbed away, and her eyes are tired. That is all Arthur needs to hear. A rage unlike anything he's ever felt bursts inside his chest. He whips around, already three paces from the door before a small hand circles his arm.

"Wait!" Ariadne is gripping his arm so tightly her fingernails are digging into his skin. Her wrist is bruised as well. Both are. "Don't go."

He doesn't understand how she can— "I am not going to just let him—"

"Don't go," she pleads, shaking, her wild eyes boring into his. "Don't leave me. You can't go. You have to stay—" She breaks off, her head jerking to find Eames and fixing him with what can only be described as an accusing glare. The forger, whose hand is already on the doorknob, exhales audibly and steps away from it. Ariadne returns her attention to Arthur.

"Please don't leave me." Her breath is now hitched, coming in gasps. Tears are welling in her eyes. Sensing an imminent collapse, the point man doesn't move.

"Ari—" Her name actually breaks off on his lips as her knees buckle and he wraps his other arm around her waist to keep her standing. She releases her grip, her eyes now staring unfocused up at his. "Easy..." Those tears begin to fall very delicately from her eyes. Arthur brushes a few away with the pad of his thumb, smoothing her hair back. "I won't okay? I won't go anywhere."

"Promise me," she breathes, her eyes rolling.

"I promise."

And then she's limp in his arms. Arthur looks up from her pale face to Yusuf, whose lips twist into a sympathetic grimace. "She needs to sleep. There's a fist aid kit under the bathroom sink. Her cut needs to be cleaned and bandaged."

Eames lets out a cough. "We'll be downstairs."

"Hold on," Arthur interjects. "What was that? Before?"

The forger sighs, running a hand through his hair. "I told her I would keep you safe. All of you." When his hand falls back down, the Brit's expression is bitter. "Guess I didn't do a very good job, did I?"

Both men slip out without another word, and head down to the adjoining room to David Michelson's. It at least, had two beds and no women. With a worried and frustrated sigh, Arthur puts his free arm under Ariadne's knees and lifts her with little effort into his arms. His shirt shifts up along her body and he stares very determinedly at her face. But he can see it clearly now; the five-fingered bruise on her thigh.

It takes a minute, but Arthur manages to pull back the covers and deposit Ariadne onto the bed without dropping her. Her weight sinks the mattress and jerks him forward; so close that their noses nearly touch. Tears still clung stubbornly to her eyelashes and leave glistening trails along her cheeks. He can feel his breath catching inside his throat. His hand rises, his finger tracing the curve of her face of its own volition.

Arthur retrieves the first aid kit, pulling out bandages and tape and antibiotic cream. He grabs another washcloth and carefully pulls the shirt collar away from her neck and unbuttoning the first two buttons. Thankfully the entire cut is now exposed; a harsh line on her once flawless shoulder. He cleans very gently and manages the cream and bandage without even a twitch from Ariadne. She is so still in fact that Arthur has to watch her for several moments to make sure she is breathing.

He shouldn't have let her do this. She is still so innocent; so pure and untainted by the awful things they've done to people who don't even know their names. Arthur knows that it's dreams and that dreams aren't real, but he also knows that the pain you feel inside them will stay with you. The last thing he wants is for Ariadne to know what it's like to have your kneecap blown out by a bullet, which has unfortunately happened to him. Twice.

This was why,  **the real reason** why he didn't allow her inside the dream, because he'd thought she'd be safer in reality. But he was wrong, and Ariadne now has a lasting reminder of his mistake. Running a hand over his face, Arthur gently pulls himself away, taking off his shoes and dress pants and turning out the light. Finding a pair of pyjama bottoms of Yusuf's in a drawer, he pulls them on and slips into the other side of the bed. He turns over onto his side and watches the moonlight cast Ariadne into silhouette, and the steady rise and fall of her chest.

It takes as many casts of his die as he can get before he falls asleep to assure him that he isn't still dreaming.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay. Terribly short I know, but I can only write Arthur for so long without it becoming weird, and I thought an entire chapter dedicated to our favourite point man would be pretty cool. Connor will be dealt with, although whether that's sooner rather than later I haven't decided yet. The next chapter's gonna be chock full of some emotional stuff, so I wanted to hold onto that so this could stand on its own. 
> 
> I should stop now.


	10. Chapter Ten

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because I refused for this to turn into one of those angst-fests where she has to hide all her sufferings to alleviate his burden. Because that's just annoying.

She wakes up screaming.

Ariadne shoves at the weight thrown over her waist, lurching out of bed and only dimly aware of the ache in her shoulder. A shadow moves  **from the bed**. The architect grabs the first thing she sees: a bottle of water from the nightstand, and hurls it. The thing ducks and the bottle hits the opposite wall with a crack.

"Ari! It's okay, Ari, it's me."

Light floods the room, and it takes Ariadne's eyes several seconds to adjust to the change. Arthur stands on the other side of the bed, hands raised. In a cotton t shirt and pyjama bottoms, he is the most dressed down she's ever seen. Chest heaving, Ariadne looks around the room. Hotel room, no mark, no Connor Black...the architect reaches one hand up to her shoulder to collide with a long white bandage.

Fruitlessly, she feels for her totem, but it's only just dawned on her that she's only wearing a dress shirt. A man's dress shirt. Cheeks burning, Ariadne tugs on the hem with one hand. "Where's—"

"Over here," says Arthur, pointing to the floor outside the bathroom door. Forgoing her decency for the moment, she rushes over to the bishop, tipping it on the counter above the fridge. It clunks hitting the granite. Trying to breathe normally, Ariadne pushes her mind to recall the night before. But not much comes.

"What happened?" she half-whispers, turning wide-eyed to face Arthur. The point man's eyes widen in turn, before his face settles into something calm, reassuring.

"What do you remember?"

"Um, I remember you going under with the mark, opening the door to go back to Yusuf's...Connor was there. He—" Ariadne holds her wrists up to her eyes, and then looks down at her legs. The colour drains from her face. "He had a knife. I um, I jumped for the gun..." Her hand finds the bandage again, and her eyes returns to Arthur's, confused. "Did you...?"

The point man nods. The architect folds her arms around herself, feeling painfully exposed. Graciously, Arthur turns around as she lifts the hem of the shirt with a trembling hand. The bruise is dark and painful to the touch. When she looks back up again, Arthur is still turned away. Feeling lightheaded, Ariadne returns to the bed, wrapping herself in the covers. Hearing the movement, he looks back. His eyes are troubled as—very slowly—he moves to sit on the end of the king-sized bed.

"Ariadne," he says quietly. "Did he—"

"No." It comes out nearly a quivering shout. She is unable to meet his eyes for the longest time, before forcing herself to. He has to know this at least. "No, he didn't."

Arthur's shoulders sag as relief colours his features. It's the first time ever that she's seen him be anything less than...calm, composed, unfazed. Even when he smiles there is something reserved about it, something careful. Unnerved by this un-Arthurian display, Ariadne proceeds to pick at the immaculate bedspread.

"Thank you for telling me."

There is a certain resignation that she doesn't understand, mixed in with the intense anger in his eyes. Ariadne chuckles humourlessly. "You would have figured it out eventually. I didn't want to cause you more trouble than it was worth. No need to delay the inevitable, right?"

Arthur's jaw tightens. "I suppose not."

There is a brief pause. "I'm sorry, Arthur," says the architect suddenly. "That was callous of me."

He shakes his head, dismissing it. "It's alright." Standing, he stretches. Ariadne's eyes widen at the smooth expanse of his stomach as his shirt rides up, and the defined muscle she can spot from feet away. "Hungry?"

Feeling a distinct déjà vu, the architect nods, blushing as Arthur catches her staring. His lips quirk, the earlier tension forgotten. "What do you feel like?"

"What time is it?"

"Just after seven."

"Hmm." Ariadne folds her legs underneath herself. "Waffles. And hash browns. Ooh, and bacon."

"Fruit?"

"Fruit would be nice too, yes."

Chuckling, Arthur picks up the hotel room phone. She's not even surprised to hear him order in perfect French, before replacing it in its cradle. "Where are Eames and Yusuf?"

A dark shadow flits across the point man's face unlike anything she's seen before. "They're dealing with Black."

"Dealing?" she echoes, jumping to her feet when he doesn't respond. "What's that supposed to mean? Arthur?"

"It means," he says slowly, the muscle in his jaw twitching; "They are informing him that the job was failed and that he will not be getting his information."

"But you—"

"Yes, I did. We got it out of Michelson. It's actually nothing particularly impressive. No missiles or bubonic plague or anything. Just your standard black market automatic weaponry."

"Standard black market weaponry," she repeats dryly, raising an eyebrow. "There's such a thing?" At his nod, she can't help but roll her eyes. The architect is  **not** looking forward to the day where illegal activity could be rated on a scale of one to ten, and be unfazed by one to four.

"He hurt you." They lock eyes as Arthur answers the question still lingering in her mind. "He therefore forfeited any right to demand anything from this team."

There is a long pause. "Arthur?" She is quiet now.

"Yes?"

It's hard to look at him again. "Thank you. For staying."

The serious intensity of his expression barely dims. "I promised, didn't I?"

Effectively silenced and pink, Ariadne returns her attention to her state of undress. "Think Eames and Yusuf could stop at my apartment?"

Wordlessly, Arthur hands over his phone. Sitting once again on the bed, the architect dials yet another memorized number.

" _Why Arthur, if I didn't know better I'd think you have no faith in my rejection abilities."_

" _I_  have complete faith in you, Eames. But you might be right about that. But..." Her voice drops into seriousness. "You didn't...do anything to him, did you?"

" _And good morning to you, Princess. No, I didn't. Would have been delighted to, but those Blacks just love their security. How is my favourite architect feeling?"_

"As good as can be expected," she replies, as Arthur moves to deal with knocking on the door. "Listen, could you and Yusuf stop by my apartment? I need something to wear out of here. I'm not leaving this room in nothing but Arthur's shirt."

" _Ah, but you wear it so well, darling."_

Her face colours, and Ariadne is glad the topic of conversation is out of the immediate vicinity. "Gee, thanks. But I prefer you know, pants with my shirts that I haven't slept in."

" _Fine then."_ She can practically see his pout. She gives him her address and location of the spare key and tells him to grab the first few things he sees. Hanging up, Ariadne has to make an effort to keep her mouth closed as the scent of breakfast wafts into the room. Arthur's lips twitch at her expression. She eagerly accepts her plate, but is unable to stop the flinch as their fingers brush.

Shamefaced, Ariadne stares down at the food. She can feel his gaze on her.

"Hey." Arthur's voice is gentle. "Look at me."

Tentatively, she raises her eyes to his. The understanding in them makes her gut twist uncomfortably. The point man's gaze is probing. "It's okay. I hardly expect you to be over this in a matter of hours." He smiles very softly, which she only manages to return. Conversation over, they both tuck into breakfast, and for a long time there is nothing but that comforting silence and the memory of a bright Los Angeles afternoon.

**.a.**

"We need to train you."

"Train me?" Uneasy, Ariadne sits down in the lawn chair on the other side of the bright silver case. Even though the Michelson job is technically over, no one has disappeared. Somewhat afraid to ask why, she doesn't. Arthur nods firmly, handing her the catheter.

"I know you don't want to be in another situation like the one you were in."

Tense but helpless against this logic, the architect inserts the IV into her wrist. Arthur studies her for a long moment. "Do you trust me?"

She nods without hesitating. Seconds later, they're under.

_It's a very Matrix-esque dojo. Ariadne can feel the bounce of the material under the floor, as well as in the walls. Which hopefully of course, won't hurt as much as a plaster hotel room. Arthur beckons her to the centre. Projections battle all around them._

" _Hit me."_

_Pausing for a split-second, the architect takes a swing at his face. It of course doesn't land, as Arthur's hand jerks out to grab her wrist in mid-flight. It's the first time they've touched in almost a week. He drops her arm, expression flat. Ariadne can feel her hand curling into a fist, and releases it. She knows he can read the uncertainty in her eyes._

" _Again."_

_She keeps trying, he keeps blocking, and dozens of tries later he is still patient with her. "You're not trying hard enough."_

" _Yes, I am," she insists, frustrated. Arthur shakes his head. Angered, she swings another fist. He ducks effortlessly, and before she can even gasp her back is to the wall and Arthur's eyes bore into hers. His gun hits the floor with a clatter._

" _Did he pin you?" he asks, and it's with a twinge of fear that Ariadne recognizes that darkness in his expression from inside the Champ Elysees hotel room. She squirms, but he's too close and their bodies do nothing but shift together. "Did he expose your neck?" Her scarf flutters to the floor. Panic begins to build inside her chest. In dreams, her skin is perfect once again. In reality there is a thin white scar, only marginally smaller than the original cut._

" _Did he make you vulnerable?" With disconcerting speed he's grabbed both of her hands in his and pulled them up above her head. She can't help the whimper that escapes her lips as lashes out, trying to buck him off._

**" _Go ahead. Scream."_**

_Arthur's grip barely tightens as he leans so close she can feel his breath against the shell of her ear. "Fight back."_

_With a strangled cry she rips herself from his grip. Her knee flies up to catch him in the stomach, but Arthur expects this. He evades her knee but not her hand as a fist cracks against his temple. Shoving him with everything she's got, Ariadne lurches away, only to have the point man grab her arm and yank her back. Putting all her momentum into it she tackles him around the middle, sending them both crashing into the floor._

_Their heads crack together and for a moment all she sees is an explosion of white behind her eyes. He flips them; eyes still dark and hair still perfect. This time her knee does connect, and she takes the opportunity to kick him off with both legs. Spinning around she tries to scramble to her feet, but he grabs her foot and yanks her back to the ground. She kicks out with her free leg, not even looking to see where but only knowing she's connected with some part of him and he lets go._

_The gun. It's right there in front of her face, but Arthur kicks it away. He's turned her around again and she lashes out, scratching at his neck. He lurches up, and she scrambles for the gun again. At last she reaches it and whips around, still lying on the floor like some movie spy. Arthur's raised his hands above his head—his nose streaming red—staying still as Ariadne tries to regain normal footing. At last she's standing upright, with him crouching low before her._

_Her hands are shaking. Arthur reaches out wraps his hand over hers, steadying her grip. He then pulls the gun forward, placing the end against his chest; against his heart. "Shoot me here," he says, and then pulls it higher; to his forehead. Ariadne squeezes her eyes shut. "I won't get up."_

_The gun plummets to the ground and the dream crumbles around them._

It takes two tries to get her bishop upright enough to fall over. Eames and Yusuf look over, but she ignores them.

Furious and trembling, Ariadne rips the IV from her arm and jumps to her feet, ignoring Arthur as he calls her name and follows her out. His hand lands on her shoulder— "Ari—"—and his head snaps to the side with the force of her slap. The architect puts her stinging hand to her mouth as Arthur blinks slowly, reaching with one hand to gingerly touch his jaw. Breathing heavily, she tightens her grip on the bishop in her other hand.

"I'm sorry." She doesn't understand how he can still be  **so damn calm**. He looks down at her with those endlessly dark eyes. "I probably deserve that."

"Don't follow me," she gets out, glaring for all that she's worth before spinning back on her heel and storming away.

How could he  **do that**? Ariadne is still fuming as she fumbles with the key to her apartment. Reason tells her that he was just being smart; using her anger and fear to get her to attack, but that sensitive part of her still rails against it. In a few hours Ariadne knows that she'll be able to forgive him, because she knows that he's only trying to keep her safe. Still, it's a bruise to her ego and psyche, so the architect just lets herself grumble in the privacy of her home.

"Hello, Ariadne."

Make that not so private. What is it with this guy? Ariadne drops her keys upon sight of Connor, sitting in her lazy boy like he owns the damn place. "Get out." She doesn't care to know what he's doing here. She just wants him gone. Connor smirks, his fingers steeple together in front of his face.

"Not so fast. I was wondering where you were when your two lackeys came to tell me that they failed in the extraction. With your boyfriend Arthur perhaps?"

"Arthur's not my boyfriend," she snaps automatically. "So we failed. You didn't pay us. Now get out of my apartment."

"But that's just the thing." Connor is on his feet now, his smirk falling into a something cold. "I don't think you failed. I think you lied. Arthur is the best at what he does, and if you've all worked with Dom Cobb, then you're all the best there is too. So there's no reason you should have failed at a simple extraction."

"Well gee," Ariadne bites out, "Maybe you should have thought of that before you decided it would be fun to jump the architect."

His expression grows dangerous. "Tell me what you extracted from David Michelson."

" _I_ didn't extract anything." Her hand reaches into her pocket, but he grabs her arm before she can get to her phone, or totem. "I was too busy dealing with the employer trying to mess up the job he'd given us."

"What did you extract?" Connor demands again, gripping her arm until it starts to hurt. Ariadne just keeps glaring, wrenching her arm from his grip.

"I wouldn't know, even if we did. You should know what it means to have too many people with that knowledge. Arthur isn't stupid."

"Ariadne?"

Both heads turn to the open doorway. Ariadne's elderly neighbour, Mrs. Bloomfield, peers at her anxiously. "Is everything alright dear?"

"Er, everything's fine Mrs. Bloomfield," the architect assures her quickly. She puts a (disgusted) hand on Connor's arm and nearly shoves him out the door. "I don't need new insurance, thanks."

"When you change your mind," he says coolly, "You know where to find me."

"I won't thanks!" she says, her fake smile so wide it's almost painful. He stalks away. Mrs. Bloomfield is still looking at her with wide, concerned eyes.

"Are you sure you're alright, Ariadne?"

"Oh, I'm great." The smile is still plastered onto her face. "Just have a lot of work to do for school. I'll see you later, Mrs. Bloomfield." And with that, she slams the door shut. Her heart hammering, Ariadne grabs her phone. It rings and rings, until she's afraid he's ignoring her call.

" _Are you still mad at me?"_

"Of course not." Fear is beginning to seize her lungs. "Arthur, we have a big problem."

 


	11. Chapter Eleven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (PSA: This is something that came up during the original writing process over at ff.net, but I thought it was important to re-state it here even though none of you have said anything to this effect, at least not yet.)
> 
> So there's been a lot of both agreement and disagreement when it comes to the coquettish/damsel remark that I worked around for in the last chapter, as well as concerns that the altercation with Connor was too 'light' and that people had been expecting her to be raped. I can kind of address both at once in saying that I could never write Ariadne (or anyone for that matter) being raped. 
> 
> I'm not being squeamish, but rape is something really serious. And since I've (thankfully) never been in a situation where I've had to deal with anything remotely like rape, I'm not going to write about it and pretend like I know what I'm talking about in terms of all the aftermath that goes along with it. From what I understand, it's something you never truly get over. For those who believe my portrayal of Ariadne was a bit too damsel-y, if she'd been raped, she be that way for a lot longer.
> 
> She'd certainly not be able to be with Arthur in any substantial way in this fic at all. It's really just not possible. In terms of the lightness of her fight, if it were me I'd hardly be over it in a week. I drew the scar that I imagine Ariadne having on myself in pen, so I could look in the mirror and see it for days afterwards, and try to imagine what it would be like to have this constant reminder of something awful that happened to you, there on your body forever. It's easily hidden of course, but that doesn't mean it's not there.
> 
> I'm not trying to be dramatic, and I'm not offended by your guys' opinions or suggestions, nor do I want to offend anyone. I respect you all very much. I just wanted to clear this up because for me, being an eighteen (now 21) year old girl, the idea of being attacked like that by a man twice my size isn't something I take lightly, and I don't think Ariadne, strong-willed as she might be, would either.
> 
> For those who dislike coquettish Ariadne, I'm sorry but she reappears in this chapter. When I said lasting mental effects I did actually mean it. Sorry for rambling, I just really wanted to share with you guys how I was feeling before continuing. Please enjoy chapter eleven.

"He thinks we  **lied** about the extraction."

"That's because we  _did_ lie, mate." Eames points out to a still-but-barely composed Arthur. Ariadne looks anxiously from him to Eames to Yusuf, who just looks grim. "In fact, I think  _he_  lied to  _us_. There's nothing fantastic about Michelson's so called 'bag of tricks'. Why would Black be willing to dish out four million dollars for information he could have probably gotten at a substantially lower price?"

"Paranoia?" offers Yusuf. "The mind, as well all know, is a powerful weapon. It's very possible that Michelson just  _wanted_ Black to think he was unbeatable. While Black was busy reinforcing his security and wasting energy checking up on Michelson, the Michelson Projects was closing an arms deal that Black could have easily had."

"Michelson doesn't seem like the type to be able to come up with such an elusive ruse," Ariadne interjects, earning a snort from Eames. Arthur frowns at him. "That would involve  _willingly_ subjecting himself to extraction, for which he had no defence. Why would he do that, anyway? I'm sure he has dirty laundry or skeletons in his closet that he wants to keep hidden that have nothing to do with weaponry."

"I agree." Arthur's brow is furrowed in contemplation. "Michelson isn't smart; certainly not as smart as Connor. He doesn't know about extraction. Even if he knew and had no training, his projections would have caught on a lot faster."

"So that leaves us where?"

No one replies to Ariadne's question, leaving her to decide they're back exactly where they'd started: which is nowhere. She sighs, and then takes a moment to try and process the sight of her three teammates crammed into her living room. Arthur's only words upon her announcement that Connor had found his way into her home were _"Don't move. We'll be there in ten."_

And twenty minutes later, here they were. Eames gives Arthur a pointed look. "There is another possibility."

The point man becomes rigid. "It's been considered."

"And?"

Confused, Ariadne pauses in mid-motion. She'd been in the process of gathering coffee mugs. "What possibility?"

Arthur doesn't say anything for a long moment, and then turns his gaze to hers. "Let me help you with those." Wordlessly, she hands him two mugs and he follows into the kitchen. Eames's eyes bore into their backs, clearly not finished with the conversation. "We still haven't discussed your home issue."

"It's fine, Arthur. I'll just change the locks."

"And when will that happen?"

"Next few days?"

Obviously unsatisfied with this answer, the point man shakes his head. "I'm not leaving you vulnerable for days at a time."

Bristling, the architect drops her mug on the counter with a clunk. "I'm not  _vulnerable._  You made sure of that." She can feel his eyes on her.

"So you don't forgive me for earlier." He sounds unsurprised. Frustrated, Ariadne swings her head to look him in the eye.

"No, I do. Really. I just..." She makes a noise of discontent. "I don't want to be the weak link on this team. You don't have to protect me, you know."

"You're not weak, Ariadne. You don't think you've already proven that?"

Somewhat abashed, she turns away. Her eyes widen as Arthur takes her chin in his hand, gently lifting her eyes to meet his. "We just want to keep you safe."

Unnerved but unable to move, Ariadne swallows. Her cheeks dust pink, and as she watches, amusement flickers in his gaze before receding into the Point Man Face. "Fine," she grounds out, and he releases her. "What exactly did you have in mind?"

"Well, I can give Mitchell and Alice a call—"

"No. No way. I'm not bringing them into this." She shakes her head vehemently. "You know Mitchell has no business with Connor. They're good people."

"And you're not?" Arthur interjects, raising a cool eyebrow. Ariadne flushes, making a face.

"You know what I mean."

His lips twitch. "Fine then. I guess I'll just have to stay."

The architect's jaw unhinges like a trap door. "Excuse me?"

"I'm not leaving you alone. Not when he can just waltz through your front door."

They're locked in a staring competition; Ariadne's stubbornness betrayed by the small crease between her eyebrows, and Arthur's insistence masked effortlessly beneath the composure he keeps so well. She wants to yell at him, but Eames and Yusuf are only a dozen feet away in the next room, and she couldn't possibly deal with all three of them at once. She knows they'll all agree.

"Just you," the architect concedes finally. "I won't have three grown men traipsing in and out of my apartment all the time. Mrs. Bloomfield has a big mouth."

He chuckles; the first time he's laughed in as many days as they haven't touched. "Just me, then."

**.a.**

" _Go ahead," he goads, as she continues to struggle in stubborn silence. "Scream."_

_The light reflected off the knife flashes past her vision, and Ariadne blinks, only to find Connor replaced by Mal, and the room replaced with the one in Cobb's dreams. Pieces of the broken pair litter the floor; remnants of a perfect room and a perfect couple. Glass breaks beneath their feet. A deeper panic grips her lungs as she stares wide eyed at Cobb's dead wife, turning the knife over and over in contemplation and poisonous anger._

" _Do you what it is to be a lover?" she asks, slow and sultry like the first time Ariadne heard the words. "To be half of a whole?"_

 _Frozen, Ariadne can only continue to take shaking breaths, and wonder if it's possible for one's heart to beat_ slower _in times of distress. Another flash of light._

" _I didn't know business could be mixed with pleasure on the clock..."_

_His hand is there again; a bruising grip on her thigh, pressing her even more painfully against the wall. Her back hits the floor, but it's not Arthur she finds looming over her so ominously. Connor's large hand covers her mouth even as she screams...and Mal plunges the knife into her chest._

Ariadne jerks up, waking with a gasp. Cold sweat has her hair sticking to her face. In the dark her shaking hand reaches for her totem, nearly knocking it to the floor. After it thunks against the nightstand, she clutches it in her fist. The weight is grounding, even as she continues to struggle for air. Light floods the room. With barely a glance, the architect lets the bishop fly from her hand. It connects with the dark figure with a sickening sound.

Arthur fixes her with a disbelieving look before crumpling to the floor. Putting a hand to her mouth, Ariadne scrambles out of bed.

"Arthur! Oh my god I am so sorry!"

He just groans (to her immense relief), putting a hand to his just barely bleeding forehead. She grabs his elbow, helping him up and sitting him down on her bed. "Don't move, okay? I'll get something for your...um, your head."

He mutters something colourful in response. Bright red, the architect rushes from the room, returning a minute later with a bag of frozen peas. The point man accepts it with a grimace, wincing as he places it against his head.

"You'd be an amazing shot, you know. And you'd think I'd learn after the first time."

Ariadne just blushes deeper. "I really am sorry. You scared me."

He nods, and then winces again. "I'm sorry too. I shouldn't have surprised you like that. I heard noises and..." Arthur trails off as Ariadne's face goes from coloured to pale. "Everything okay?"

"Fine." Even to her own ears, her voice is unnaturally high. "I'm fine."

Looking dubious, Arthur's eyes become probing. "You're not fine."

Uncomfortable, the architect looks down at her comforter. "Just a bad dream."

"Do you want to talk about it?"

She takes a deep breath, shaking her head. "What possibility was Eames talking about?" she asks, hoping to divert his attention. Arthur's eyes narrow, but he humours her anyway.

"The possibility that Connor's been playing us all along. Just to get back at me."

"Get back at you?" she echoes, tilting her head and looking up at his face. "For what?"

The point man lets out a humourless laugh. "Who knows? For training under his grandfather, for being chosen by Cobb over him, for dating that girl we both liked in college? I'm sure there are hundreds of reasons Connor could come up with to justify what Eames thinks he's doing. I thought..." He trails off, his eyes dark and clouded. Ariadne bites her lip.

"What is it, Arthur?"

"I thought that he'd change." That brief, pained expression from forever ago ages him beyond the years that Ariadne can imagine him being. "I thought that once we grew up, grew apart for a while...I thought he'd forgive me."

For a long time it's unbearably quiet, punctured only by the rustling of the peas melting in Arthur's hand. The architect opens her mouth, wanting but still afraid to ask the question that's been plaguing her since the day Connor Black walked into their lives. Before she can however, the point man's stellar poker face returns to stare her down.

"How long have you been dreaming like this?"

She  **tries.** She really tries, to hold his gaze and pretend that this isn't affecting her to a level that has built a knot of fear inside her gut. But she can't, and it's a small, meek (stupid jackass Connor Black induced) voice that replies "Since it happened."

"Ari..." Feeling shame burn her cheeks, Ariadne can't look at him. She hears him exhale, almost not catching the words that would spiral her shame and fear into indignation and anger. "I'm sorry."

"Sorry?" The architect nearly shrieks. "What? Don't be  _sorry._ It's not your fault! I'm not  _weak,_ alright? Don't you  **dare**  pity me Arthur. Do you hear me? I knew exactly what I was getting into in Los Angeles after Fischer and—" She almost can't say his name. "—Cobb, and I'm not about to let some stupid arrogant jackass take me away from you and this job!"

"I don't pity you." He's  **too damn calm.** She wants to reach out and throttle him into screaming and yelling at her. "I'm trying to—"

" _Protect me?_ " She spits the word out like dirt in her mouth, jumping to her feet in a whirlwind of frustration. "No one asked you to!"

"Dom did."

He  **never**  uses Cobb's first name in front of them. Ariadne's mouth falls open, fury still storming her eyes and lining her lips. " _What?"_ Her voice cracks in a disbelieving whisper. Arthur sighs, his hand reaching up to rub the back of his neck and mussing his hair. For once he looks just a little undone, and the idea fills Ariadne with a new kind of fear.

"He knew you'd be back, you know. After he shared that dream with you."

" _Wake me up! Cobb! Wake me up!"_

She flinches without really registering it, as Arthur looks at her with those infinitely dark, unreadable eyes. "He said you'd be back. Said you were one of a kind. Told me I had to teach you. Watch over you."

"I see her in my dreams," she says, breathless and hollow. "Mal. I followed Cobb into his memories. He trapped her there. She asked me if I knew what it was to be a lover, to be half of a whole. But I can't say anything, because he has that knife and she has that knife and they just turn it over and over, and he grabs me and puts his hand over my mouth to keep me from screaming and she—"

The words choke inside her throat. As she blinks, twin tears fall from her eyes. Arthur steps over without a sound, reaching out and cupping Ariadne's face with one icy hand. She jumps, and then leans into his palm, closing her eyes and trying to remember what it was like when all she saw behind them was darkness. The architect stays very still, breathing slowly even as Arthur drops the peas and folds his free arm around her; even as he leans forwards and presses his lips against her forehead.

"Listen to me." Ariadne drops her head into his shoulder, letting a few more tears fall. His voice is low and soothing in her ear; his lips brushing just so against her neck and making her shiver. "I know you're strong, and I know you want to do this and I know you can, but you don't have to be so strong all the time. It's okay to be scared. And I know you might not want me to, but I'm always going to be here. No matter what. I know you think that sometimes you should be able to do this without me, but Ari, you don't have to okay? You can let me in."

Her breath hitches, and she can feel his heart beating against the shell of her ear.

"I will never leave you."

She has to muffle a sob. Arthur wraps his arms around her holds her tight; she can feel his chin against her shoulder. They stay like that for a very long time, until the first few rays of dawn light filter through the window, bringing morning to life all around them.


	12. Chapter Twelve

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> nothing like the awkward morning after.

When Ariadne wakes, the sun is warm on her face, basking her in late morning light. Her totem dangles in her right hand, as her left reaches up to rub at the sleep in her eyes. She is alone. The architect tips her bishop anxiously, trying to quell the sudden nervous twist in her stomach. Grabbing her favourite over-sized zip up hoodie, Ariadne wraps it her camisole-wearing self, in search of a sense of security as she pads out with silent steps to the kitchen and the smell of bacon and toast.

The sight that meets her eyes almost sends her totem careening for another level surface. Arthur stands at her stove in a white t shirt and dark pajama bottoms, staring very intently at the pan of bacon he holds steady with one hand. Two plates of scrambled eggs and toast are already set on the small kitchen table, along with coffee and what she recognizes from the smell as her favourite tea in respective mugs.

"Good morning," he says, looking up at her to quirk his lips in that (really adorable) way of his. Ariadne lifts her hand in a confused, half-hearted motion. "Hungry?"

Her need is too strong. The bishop clunks on the table, nearly knocking over the salt and pepper. The architect looks from it to the point man, whose gaze is trained down at the bacon again. She swears the visible corner of his lip is upturned in an amused smile. Ariadne opens her mouth, trying to find the words to phrase this decidedly awkward question. The memory is somewhat fuzzy.

"You had a rough night. I sent you back to bed." Arthur looks briefly at the clock on the wall above the kitchen table. "That was a few hours ago."

She remembers now. Very clearly, in fact. Feeling her cheeks warm, Ariadne busies herself with sitting down and taking in this very real breakfast that she hasn't had since she was several years younger. "It um, looks great, Arthur. Thank you. You didn't have to do this, you know."

"I know," is all the reply she gets. Minutes later, the pan sizzles as bacon slides onto the empty plate at Arthur's elbow. She wonders briefly how he'd gotten so easily around her kitchen, and then decides she'd rather not know. The point man sits down, and their gazes lock over the rim of Ariadne's mug.

"I meant what I said," he says, in that deep timbre so comforting to her ears. She smiles briefly, softly, warmly.

"I know," is all the reply she can give.

"Yusuf is leaving today." Arthur's gaze is troubled minutes later, as the architect pauses in mid reach for more bacon. "He has urgent things to return home to, but..."

"You're worried." It comes out a statement, rather than a question. Ariadne pushes her eggs around her plate, appetite suddenly waning. "And Eames?"

"Staying." Arthur picks up his coffee, and then sets it down without drinking. "Making good on a deal of some kind."

Ariadne flushes, and eats a mouthful to save herself from having to reply. The point man's eyes are dark and serious, and she realizes something. "Isn't it dangerous? Staying here for so long?"

Arthur shrugs, the action still odd coming from him, even as he looks moderately dishevelled. "Not as dangerous as the alternative."

She doesn't ask what that alternative is. Instead, the architect cleans her plate, more so for something to than because she's still hungry. She can tell he's watching. "There's something I have to do," he announces suddenly. "Eames will be here in ten minutes. The locksmith should be here around noon."

"I don't need a babysitter, Arthur."

"Humour me, Ari? Please?" Her lips thinning in worry and surprise at his tone, Ariadne just nods her consent. Arthur's mouth twitches in the slightest of motions before he rises with empty dishes. "Thank you." The point man stops at her side, reaching to place a hand on her shoulder. Her hoodie slips, and he gives a light squeeze. His thumb brushes very tenderly across her exposed collarbone, running along the line of her scar.

The reaction is immediate and disconcerting; the hairs on her neck stand, goose bumps rise, and a shiver runs the length of her spine. Momentarily forgetting how to breathe, Ariadne reaches instinctively and covers Arthur's notably larger hand with hers. She wraps her fingers around his, and his thumb stops its ministrations as he returns the pressure of her grip. The architect closes her eyes for a long moment, her mind flashing back to the overwhelming safety she felt within his arms.

"I'll see you soon."

Exhale. Breathe. "Yeah."

Ariadne releases her grip and Arthur's hand slips away, the knuckles of his hand brushing against her temple and hairline in yet another painfully intimate gesture. She sits there at the table as he disappears into the guest bedroom and returns ever the immaculate point man. She sits and watches steam curl from the surface of her tea, listening as the front door closes and she is left alone.

When the tea goes cold Ariadne gets up to dump it in the sink.

**.a.**

She's going to hate him.

Arthur has to suppress the nervous habit of rubbing his neck as he stands before a familiar set of mahogany doors. They swing open to admit him, and the point man frantically reassembles his expression into the stoic professionalism he is known for. Mitchell smiles warmly from behind his desk as before, but the crow's feet dwindle as the warmth slides from his face, turning into something too much like realization for comfort. Before Arthur can even open his mouth, his mentor has spoken.

"What happened?"

He has to make a conscious effort to keep the surprise off his face. But then, Arthur realizes, he shouldn't be. Surprised, that is. This is Mitchell Black after all; the man who taught him nearly everything he knows. The rest of course, he owes to one Dom Cobb.

"We were compromised.  **Connor compromised us**."

The point man finds himself having to  _try_  to keep his voice level. Mitchell's eyes widen but his solemn expression doesn't even flicker. Arthur's fingers find the grounding weight of his die, and he clenches it in his fist.

"He attacked her. The extraction was already complete, but—"

"He attacked her," Mitchell repeats, not as a question, but as a statement. "The extracted information is no longer so readily available, is it?"

Arthur just shakes his head. "He's been inside her  _home_. I can't—" He has to cut himself off at the rising volume of his voice before continuing. "I can no longer guarantee her safety."

Mitchell's long fingers steeple together in front of his face in steady contemplation. "Ariadne does not strike me as a girl who enjoys being a damsel in distress."

"No, sir. I'm afraid sooner rather than later I will find myself barred from her doorstep. As much as she knows Eames and I just want to keep her safe, sometimes her stubborn will wins out."

"What can I do?"

"Well," Arthur takes a moment to curse his renegade moment of desperation. He usually thought these things through so carefully. The point man hadn't even considered what he'd do if Mitchell refused his request. "There is a vacancy in an apartment on Ariadne's floor. A few doors down from hers; it's been up for several weeks now. There's no way Eames or myself could—"

"Move in without incurring her wrath?" finishes his mentor with the briefest hint of amusement. Taking an embarrassed breath, Arthur nods. Mitchell regards him with unreadable eyes.

"You really care for this girl." Once again, a statement and not a question. It takes all the control that the point man possesses to hold down the blush trying to creep up his neck.

"Yes, sir."

There is a long pause as teacher and student just look at each other. At last (to Arthur's undying relief) Mitchell's sharp eyes light up and a small smile plays at his lips. "I think I may have just the thing for you." Lifting the receiver from its cradle, the man makes a call. "Annie. Would you be so kind as to send Mr. Scott in to me please? Thank you."

Minutes later, a tall, blonde, hazel-eyed man Arthur has not seen in years stands before his boss. William (Will) Scott, last he can remember, is a member of the Blacks personal security detail. Mitchell's favourite, if memory served. Seeing Arthur, the two nod at each other in silent acknowledgment. "What can I do for you Mr. Black?"

"I am glad you and Arthur seem to remember each other, William," says Mitchell kindly. "For what I ask of you concerns Arthur greatly. Are you and your wife still looking for an apartment?"

If he's confused at the direction of this conversation, William doesn't show it. Instead, he nods. "That's right, sir."

"What would you say if I knew of a vacancy in a complex only twenty minutes from here?"

"I would say that's marvellous, but unfortunately all the housing in this area is far above our price range." The man's brow furrows as his boss looks upon him with utmost patience.

"And if I could offer you an immediate raise in order for you to be able to buy this apartment? In exchange for a little...shall we call it overtime?"

Shooting a furtive glance at Arthur, Will asks "What kind of overtime would that be, sir?"

"There is a young woman residing in this complex who is very dear to Arthur and very dear to me in turn. The two of them have unfortunately come into a  _misunderstanding_ with my grandson, Connor."

William's expression darkens momentarily, causing Arthur to wonder if Connor had ever returned while he'd been gone. "And what does this have to do with the vacancy?"

"Her safety is of the utmost importance. While measures have been taken, you are without a doubt the best precaution I can offer. I trust you absolutely with my life at all times, and you are a protection that I wish to extend to Miss Ariadne. However, she is of the iron-willed variety, not unlike your Brielle, as I understand. Meaning, she will not take kindly to having a bodyguard. Arthur can stay in her apartment for only so long before she decides she's had enough."

The man flushes as Arthur tries not to. "Will this secret vigil pose a threat to my wife? Because if the answer is yes I am afraid I must refuse."

"There is no reason it should," Mitchell reassures him. "Because you did not work for me until after Connor broke contact with the company, he has never seen you. In fact, I believe you'd been only here for a few months before Arthur left us as well."

After his and Connor's falling out, Arthur remembers meeting his mentor's newest recruit, only a few years his junior. Even  _he_ knew the boy was promising, and the company chief had taken an immediate liking to young William Scott. Upon leaving, Arthur was permanent point man to Dom Cobb and Will Scott was already climbing the ranks within Mitchell's security. Like with his teacher, Arthur had cut off all contact. Until now.

There is another long pause, in which William visibly weighs his options. "If I understand correctly, I am to covertly keep an eye on this Ariadne and report anything suspicious to Arthur, in exchange for help of payment on the apartment vacant in her complex?"

Mitchell nods, looking pleased at his understanding. "On her floor to be precise, but yes. That is the service that I ask of you. It will of course be a temporary service, and the apartment shall remain yours when your surveillance is no longer required, at which time you will be notified. I can even send a team out for you so you'll be settled as quickly as possible."

Will turns to Arthur, and in the moment all sense of propriety leaves him. "You pissed him off, didn't you?"

The point man's expression becomes stony. "Connor asked a service of us, and decided that throwing himself at her with a knife in hand was a suitable course of action. The service therefore remains incomplete."

The blonde lets out a low whistle. "Well then." Will turns back to Mitchell. "Would I be able to take time to consider your offer?"

Arthur works the muscle in his jaw as his mentor shoots him a glance before replying. "If I could have your answer before you leave me today that would be greatly appreciated."

William nods. "Yes, sir."

With one last nod to Arthur, the man leaves them. After a moment, Arthur realizes that he  _has_ in fact seen Will Scott more recently. He'd been the guard at the door on the day of his first visit. Of course being so focused, the point man hadn't even recognized him. He is then thankful that Will had been tactful enough to not mention his first encounter with Ariadne. A beat of silence passes. "Thank you, Mitchell. I cannot tell you how grateful I am. I..." He pauses before plunging on. "I am sorry it has come to this."

"It is the least I can do, Arthur. He is my family, after all."

Mitchell Black's bright eyes hold no anger or resentment, only a profound sadness that brings the colour of shame to Arthur's pale cheeks. "I am only glad that you have found someone who stirs such an acute reaction in you, my son. You know, after nearly forty years, Alice still makes my poor old heart race."

Despite everything, the point man finds the smallest of smiles on his face. His mentor's smile is filled with the joy and wisdom of a life long lived. "Hold onto her, Arthur. Hold on and don't let go."

**.a.**

"They finally had an offer for 4C," is the first thing Ariadne says that afternoon as Arthur returns, sliding his phone into his pocket. "Mrs. Bloomfield literally  _just_ told me."

"Ah yes. I ran into her out in the hall." The architect holds in a snort at the point man's peculiar expression. "She doesn't seem to like me very much."

"She thinks you're in the mob," Ariadne explains in an amused, conspiratorial tone. "Unsuitable company for a girl like me, you know."

Arthur raises one perfect eyebrow. "And what does Mrs. Bloomfield think of Eames?"

"A perfectly respectable English gentleman."

This time Ariadne does laugh as Arthur's nose wrinkles in obvious distaste. "Don't worry," she assures him. "I set her straight. Told her you're actually an undercover American cop."

"Wonderful," is the dry, sardonic reply. "Any idea who's interested in the apartment?"

The architect shrugs. "It's been less than half an hour since the call came through. Not even Mrs. Bloomfield is that good."

Moments later, knocking is heard on the apartment door. With a ridiculous eyebrow wiggle at her roommate, Ariadne jumps off the couch to answer it, laughing at Arthur's bemused expression. She skips her way to the door, throwing it open to expose the locksmith on the other side, wearing a company shirt. His eyes wander appraisingly up and down her form, and the young woman has to suppress a disgusted shiver.

"I take it you're here to change my locks?" she asks, figuring that a direct approach will get him started—and leaving—faster.

"I can change anything you want me to, sweetheart."

Gagging, Ariadne is thankfully saved from having to reply by the arrival of Arthur, reaching to widen the open doorway and revealing himself. Upon sight of him, the locksmith visibly deflates. "Oh, great you're here," says the point man, putting what may seem like a casual arm around Ariadne's waist. She starts, barely.

"How long will it take, do you think? To change the locks?"

"Er, about twenty minutes," the man replies, sounding sullen. The architect holds down laughter, leaning into Arthur to further his idea. "I'll just get to work, then."

"Thank you so much." Arthur smiles pleasantly, tightening his grip. "We'll let you do that."

Ariadne has to hold her breath as he steers her back inside, making it all the way into the kitchen before bursting into hysterical laughter and burrowing herself into Arthur's side. It takes her several minutes to stop, and his grip remains steady the entire time.

"I think you just made my day."

He smiles, and she's glad to note that for the first time in a long time it actually reaches his eyes. "Glad to be of service."

Cheeks flushed, Ariadne tilts her head to look at him. Arthur's eyes have returned to intent seriousness, and the gentle crease of his forehead betraying wandering thought.

"Everything okay?"

He nods, perhaps only then realizing that he still hasn't let go (which she has). He pulls his arm back slowly, stepping away in a seamless motion. Flushing deeper, Ariadne's eyes fall to her shoes. When she looks up again, Arthur's hand is falling away from his neck. She bites her lip, peering up at him through her eyelashes. "Arthur?"

"Yes?" Ariadne wonders for a second if his cheeks are pink.

"He's not going to just leave us alone, is he?"

Whatever unnameable tension that had permeated the air moments before is immediately pushed aside by something dark and sinister; a nearly suffocating storm cloud of unsettling possibilities. Arthur's eyes harden, and his jaw sets tightly.

"No, he won't."

Ariadne reaches into the pocket of her jeans to grasp the bishop and takes a deep breath. "That's what I thought."

The point man opens his mouth, undoubtedly to offer up some kind of reassurance, and then closes it again. Instead, he reaches out and takes her free hand, squeezing gently. Before he can let go, the architect latches her fingers around his in mismatched connection. Suddenly painfully shy, Ariadne slowly raises her eyes to Arthur's. As she watches, his eyes darken into a focus of something she can't name. All she knows is the incredible intensity.

That pressure from before has returned, pressing down around them, seeping into their space with the determination of light to banish shadow from every corner of a room. Ariadne is surprised to feel the return of something nearly forgotten—that invisible string that pulled them together in the crisp, clean lobby of an imaginary hotel. She swallows, and tries to convince herself that she just imagined the flicker of his gaze towards her lips.

"Arthur?"

It comes out with all the softness of a breath. He doesn't say anything. His eyebrows furrow a little, as though he's dedicating the utmost concentration in this...this moment. The drum of her heartbeat overtakes her ears, and Ariadne has to press down a sharp inhale as Arthur's thumb draws circle after circle in her palm. She wants to look away but as much as she's afraid of this feeling—of losing herself within the immense depth of his gaze—she's more afraid that breaking away will mean that all this is within her imagination.

Ariadne isn't sure who stepped forward (maybe they both did) but suddenly they're basically sharing air and breathing normally has become the most difficult thing she's ever done. The sharp-edged base of her totem is digging into her palm, still trapped within her pocket. Arthur's free hand rises, slowly, as if to pull her closer, or to cup her cheek—

"Hey! I could use some help here!"

And then it jerks away, so quickly she can feel the rush of disturbed air against her face. Their gaze finally broken, Ariadne can feel the burn in her cheeks, as she stares at her feet. Arthur doesn't say anything, just squeezes her hand one last time. By the time she looks up again, he's disappeared into the hall. Putting a hand to her chest, the architect tries to catch her breath, and wonders why all she wants to do is walk out and punch that locksmith in the face.

Before she can further confuse herself, Ariadne is startled out of her rampant thoughts by her cell phone, buzzing on the kitchen counter.

"Hello?"

" _Ariadne. It's Eames. I need you and Arthur here. Right now."_

"Eames? What—"

He hangs up before she can even ask what's wrong. Swallow a sharp, sudden sting of fear and dread, the architect shoves her phone into her pocket, taking quick strides to her room to grab her keys (before remembering they're now useless and dropping them) and bag. She nearly runs into Arthur in the hall, and he reaches out to steady her. The locksmith is gone.

"Woah, easy."

Things may have been awkward, but they have no time to digest the situation before Arthur takes in her grim expression. "What is it?"

"Eames called. He needs us right away. He didn't say why."

To his credit, the point man doesn't even blink. "Let's go."

When Ariadne and Arthur burst through the warehouse doors, they find Eames standing in barely contained anxiousness before the couch. And sitting there, to their surprise, is—

"Saito?" Her earlier dread mounts to something crushing. "What are you—"

"We have a situation," he replies, not bothering with pleasantries, looking at last like the elder man that he is. Harsh lines burrow around his eyes, storming with worry. "He has gone too far."

"He received this last night. Came straight here."

Eames hands over a manila folder, which Arthur takes in silence. If Ariadne didn't know better, she would have thought his face remained completely impassive, but she did. Surprise. Worry. Fear. It all played across the darkness of his eyes. Before she can ask, he drops the open folder onto the coffee table. In mockingly glossy photos, a young man is depicted, sitting bound in a chair in an entirely stark, grey room. His face is bruised, but she can still pick out familiar features, and eyes that had once gleamed with kindness.

"Connor has taken Kira."


	13. Chapter Thirteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> nothing like the awkward morning after.

When Ariadne wakes, the sun is warm on her face, basking her in late morning light. Her totem dangles in her right hand, as her left reaches up to rub at the sleep in her eyes. She is alone. The architect tips her bishop anxiously, trying to quell the sudden nervous twist in her stomach. Grabbing her favourite over-sized zip up hoodie, Ariadne wraps it her camisole-wearing self, in search of a sense of security as she pads out with silent steps to the kitchen and the smell of bacon and toast.

The sight that meets her eyes almost sends her totem careening for another level surface. Arthur stands at her stove in a white t shirt and dark pajama bottoms, staring very intently at the pan of bacon he holds steady with one hand. Two plates of scrambled eggs and toast are already set on the small kitchen table, along with coffee and what she recognizes from the smell as her favourite tea in respective mugs.

"Good morning," he says, looking up at her to quirk his lips in that (really adorable) way of his. Ariadne lifts her hand in a confused, half-hearted motion. "Hungry?"

Her need is too strong. The bishop clunks on the table, nearly knocking over the salt and pepper. The architect looks from it to the point man, whose gaze is trained down at the bacon again. She swears the visible corner of his lip is upturned in an amused smile. Ariadne opens her mouth, trying to find the words to phrase this decidedly awkward question. The memory is somewhat fuzzy.

"You had a rough night. I sent you back to bed." Arthur looks briefly at the clock on the wall above the kitchen table. "That was a few hours ago."

She remembers now. Very clearly, in fact. Feeling her cheeks warm, Ariadne busies herself with sitting down and taking in this very real breakfast that she hasn't had since she was several years younger. "It um, looks great, Arthur. Thank you. You didn't have to do this, you know."

"I know," is all the reply she gets. Minutes later, the pan sizzles as bacon slides onto the empty plate at Arthur's elbow. She wonders briefly how he'd gotten so easily around her kitchen, and then decides she'd rather not know. The point man sits down, and their gazes lock over the rim of Ariadne's mug.

"I meant what I said," he says, in that deep timbre so comforting to her ears. She smiles briefly, softly, warmly.

"I know," is all the reply she can give.

"Yusuf is leaving today." Arthur's gaze is troubled minutes later, as the architect pauses in mid reach for more bacon. "He has urgent things to return home to, but..."

"You're worried." It comes out a statement, rather than a question. Ariadne pushes her eggs around her plate, appetite suddenly waning. "And Eames?"

"Staying." Arthur picks up his coffee, and then sets it down without drinking. "Making good on a deal of some kind."

Ariadne flushes, and eats a mouthful to save herself from having to reply. The point man's eyes are dark and serious, and she realizes something. "Isn't it dangerous? Staying here for so long?"

Arthur shrugs, the action still odd coming from him, even as he looks moderately dishevelled. "Not as dangerous as the alternative."

She doesn't ask what that alternative is. Instead, the architect cleans her plate, more so for something to than because she's still hungry. She can tell he's watching. "There's something I have to do," he announces suddenly. "Eames will be here in ten minutes. The locksmith should be here around noon."

"I don't need a babysitter, Arthur."

"Humour me, Ari? Please?" Her lips thinning in worry and surprise at his tone, Ariadne just nods her consent. Arthur's mouth twitches in the slightest of motions before he rises with empty dishes. "Thank you." The point man stops at her side, reaching to place a hand on her shoulder. Her hoodie slips, and he gives a light squeeze. His thumb brushes very tenderly across her exposed collarbone, running along the line of her scar.

The reaction is immediate and disconcerting; the hairs on her neck stand, goose bumps rise, and a shiver runs the length of her spine. Momentarily forgetting how to breathe, Ariadne reaches instinctively and covers Arthur's notably larger hand with hers. She wraps her fingers around his, and his thumb stops its ministrations as he returns the pressure of her grip. The architect closes her eyes for a long moment, her mind flashing back to the overwhelming safety she felt within his arms.

"I'll see you soon."

Exhale. Breathe. "Yeah."

Ariadne releases her grip and Arthur's hand slips away, the knuckles of his hand brushing against her temple and hairline in yet another painfully intimate gesture. She sits there at the table as he disappears into the guest bedroom and returns ever the immaculate point man. She sits and watches steam curl from the surface of her tea, listening as the front door closes and she is left alone.

When the tea goes cold Ariadne gets up to dump it in the sink.

**.a.**

She's going to hate him.

Arthur has to suppress the nervous habit of rubbing his neck as he stands before a familiar set of mahogany doors. They swing open to admit him, and the point man frantically reassembles his expression into the stoic professionalism he is known for. Mitchell smiles warmly from behind his desk as before, but the crow's feet dwindle as the warmth slides from his face, turning into something too much like realization for comfort. Before Arthur can even open his mouth, his mentor has spoken.

"What happened?"

He has to make a conscious effort to keep the surprise off his face. But then, Arthur realizes, he shouldn't be. Surprised, that is. This is Mitchell Black after all; the man who taught him nearly everything he knows. The rest of course, he owes to one Dom Cobb.

"We were compromised.  **Connor compromised us**."

The point man finds himself having to  _try_  to keep his voice level. Mitchell's eyes widen but his solemn expression doesn't even flicker. Arthur's fingers find the grounding weight of his die, and he clenches it in his fist.

"He attacked her. The extraction was already complete, but—"

"He attacked her," Mitchell repeats, not as a question, but as a statement. "The extracted information is no longer so readily available, is it?"

Arthur just shakes his head. "He's been inside her  _home_. I can't—" He has to cut himself off at the rising volume of his voice before continuing. "I can no longer guarantee her safety."

Mitchell's long fingers steeple together in front of his face in steady contemplation. "Ariadne does not strike me as a girl who enjoys being a damsel in distress."

"No, sir. I'm afraid sooner rather than later I will find myself barred from her doorstep. As much as she knows Eames and I just want to keep her safe, sometimes her stubborn will wins out."

"What can I do?"

"Well," Arthur takes a moment to curse his renegade moment of desperation. He usually thought these things through so carefully. The point man hadn't even considered what he'd do if Mitchell refused his request. "There is a vacancy in an apartment on Ariadne's floor. A few doors down from hers; it's been up for several weeks now. There's no way Eames or myself could—"

"Move in without incurring her wrath?" finishes his mentor with the briefest hint of amusement. Taking an embarrassed breath, Arthur nods. Mitchell regards him with unreadable eyes.

"You really care for this girl." Once again, a statement and not a question. It takes all the control that the point man possesses to hold down the blush trying to creep up his neck.

"Yes, sir."

There is a long pause as teacher and student just look at each other. At last (to Arthur's undying relief) Mitchell's sharp eyes light up and a small smile plays at his lips. "I think I may have just the thing for you." Lifting the receiver from its cradle, the man makes a call. "Annie. Would you be so kind as to send Mr. Scott in to me please? Thank you."

Minutes later, a tall, blonde, hazel-eyed man Arthur has not seen in years stands before his boss. William (Will) Scott, last he can remember, is a member of the Blacks personal security detail. Mitchell's favourite, if memory served. Seeing Arthur, the two nod at each other in silent acknowledgment. "What can I do for you Mr. Black?"

"I am glad you and Arthur seem to remember each other, William," says Mitchell kindly. "For what I ask of you concerns Arthur greatly. Are you and your wife still looking for an apartment?"

If he's confused at the direction of this conversation, William doesn't show it. Instead, he nods. "That's right, sir."

"What would you say if I knew of a vacancy in a complex only twenty minutes from here?"

"I would say that's marvellous, but unfortunately all the housing in this area is far above our price range." The man's brow furrows as his boss looks upon him with utmost patience.

"And if I could offer you an immediate raise in order for you to be able to buy this apartment? In exchange for a little...shall we call it overtime?"

Shooting a furtive glance at Arthur, Will asks "What kind of overtime would that be, sir?"

"There is a young woman residing in this complex who is very dear to Arthur and very dear to me in turn. The two of them have unfortunately come into a  _misunderstanding_ with my grandson, Connor."

William's expression darkens momentarily, causing Arthur to wonder if Connor had ever returned while he'd been gone. "And what does this have to do with the vacancy?"

"Her safety is of the utmost importance. While measures have been taken, you are without a doubt the best precaution I can offer. I trust you absolutely with my life at all times, and you are a protection that I wish to extend to Miss Ariadne. However, she is of the iron-willed variety, not unlike your Brielle, as I understand. Meaning, she will not take kindly to having a bodyguard. Arthur can stay in her apartment for only so long before she decides she's had enough."

The man flushes as Arthur tries not to. "Will this secret vigil pose a threat to my wife? Because if the answer is yes I am afraid I must refuse."

"There is no reason it should," Mitchell reassures him. "Because you did not work for me until after Connor broke contact with the company, he has never seen you. In fact, I believe you'd been only here for a few months before Arthur left us as well."

After his and Connor's falling out, Arthur remembers meeting his mentor's newest recruit, only a few years his junior. Even  _he_ knew the boy was promising, and the company chief had taken an immediate liking to young William Scott. Upon leaving, Arthur was permanent point man to Dom Cobb and Will Scott was already climbing the ranks within Mitchell's security. Like with his teacher, Arthur had cut off all contact. Until now.

There is another long pause, in which William visibly weighs his options. "If I understand correctly, I am to covertly keep an eye on this Ariadne and report anything suspicious to Arthur, in exchange for help of payment on the apartment vacant in her complex?"

Mitchell nods, looking pleased at his understanding. "On her floor to be precise, but yes. That is the service that I ask of you. It will of course be a temporary service, and the apartment shall remain yours when your surveillance is no longer required, at which time you will be notified. I can even send a team out for you so you'll be settled as quickly as possible."

Will turns to Arthur, and in the moment all sense of propriety leaves him. "You pissed him off, didn't you?"

The point man's expression becomes stony. "Connor asked a service of us, and decided that throwing himself at her with a knife in hand was a suitable course of action. The service therefore remains incomplete."

The blonde lets out a low whistle. "Well then." Will turns back to Mitchell. "Would I be able to take time to consider your offer?"

Arthur works the muscle in his jaw as his mentor shoots him a glance before replying. "If I could have your answer before you leave me today that would be greatly appreciated."

William nods. "Yes, sir."

With one last nod to Arthur, the man leaves them. After a moment, Arthur realizes that he  _has_ in fact seen Will Scott more recently. He'd been the guard at the door on the day of his first visit. Of course being so focused, the point man hadn't even recognized him. He is then thankful that Will had been tactful enough to not mention his first encounter with Ariadne. A beat of silence passes. "Thank you, Mitchell. I cannot tell you how grateful I am. I..." He pauses before plunging on. "I am sorry it has come to this."

"It is the least I can do, Arthur. He is my family, after all."

Mitchell Black's bright eyes hold no anger or resentment, only a profound sadness that brings the colour of shame to Arthur's pale cheeks. "I am only glad that you have found someone who stirs such an acute reaction in you, my son. You know, after nearly forty years, Alice still makes my poor old heart race."

Despite everything, the point man finds the smallest of smiles on his face. His mentor's smile is filled with the joy and wisdom of a life long lived. "Hold onto her, Arthur. Hold on and don't let go."

**.a.**

"They finally had an offer for 4C," is the first thing Ariadne says that afternoon as Arthur returns, sliding his phone into his pocket. "Mrs. Bloomfield literally  _just_ told me."

"Ah yes. I ran into her out in the hall." The architect holds in a snort at the point man's peculiar expression. "She doesn't seem to like me very much."

"She thinks you're in the mob," Ariadne explains in an amused, conspiratorial tone. "Unsuitable company for a girl like me, you know."

Arthur raises one perfect eyebrow. "And what does Mrs. Bloomfield think of Eames?"

"A perfectly respectable English gentleman."

This time Ariadne does laugh as Arthur's nose wrinkles in obvious distaste. "Don't worry," she assures him. "I set her straight. Told her you're actually an undercover American cop."

"Wonderful," is the dry, sardonic reply. "Any idea who's interested in the apartment?"

The architect shrugs. "It's been less than half an hour since the call came through. Not even Mrs. Bloomfield is that good."

Moments later, knocking is heard on the apartment door. With a ridiculous eyebrow wiggle at her roommate, Ariadne jumps off the couch to answer it, laughing at Arthur's bemused expression. She skips her way to the door, throwing it open to expose the locksmith on the other side, wearing a company shirt. His eyes wander appraisingly up and down her form, and the young woman has to suppress a disgusted shiver.

"I take it you're here to change my locks?" she asks, figuring that a direct approach will get him started—and leaving—faster.

"I can change anything you want me to, sweetheart."

Gagging, Ariadne is thankfully saved from having to reply by the arrival of Arthur, reaching to widen the open doorway and revealing himself. Upon sight of him, the locksmith visibly deflates. "Oh, great you're here," says the point man, putting what may seem like a casual arm around Ariadne's waist. She starts, barely.

"How long will it take, do you think? To change the locks?"

"Er, about twenty minutes," the man replies, sounding sullen. The architect holds down laughter, leaning into Arthur to further his idea. "I'll just get to work, then."

"Thank you so much." Arthur smiles pleasantly, tightening his grip. "We'll let you do that."

Ariadne has to hold her breath as he steers her back inside, making it all the way into the kitchen before bursting into hysterical laughter and burrowing herself into Arthur's side. It takes her several minutes to stop, and his grip remains steady the entire time.

"I think you just made my day."

He smiles, and she's glad to note that for the first time in a long time it actually reaches his eyes. "Glad to be of service."

Cheeks flushed, Ariadne tilts her head to look at him. Arthur's eyes have returned to intent seriousness, and the gentle crease of his forehead betraying wandering thought.

"Everything okay?"

He nods, perhaps only then realizing that he still hasn't let go (which she has). He pulls his arm back slowly, stepping away in a seamless motion. Flushing deeper, Ariadne's eyes fall to her shoes. When she looks up again, Arthur's hand is falling away from his neck. She bites her lip, peering up at him through her eyelashes. "Arthur?"

"Yes?" Ariadne wonders for a second if his cheeks are pink.

"He's not going to just leave us alone, is he?"

Whatever unnameable tension that had permeated the air moments before is immediately pushed aside by something dark and sinister; a nearly suffocating storm cloud of unsettling possibilities. Arthur's eyes harden, and his jaw sets tightly.

"No, he won't."

Ariadne reaches into the pocket of her jeans to grasp the bishop and takes a deep breath. "That's what I thought."

The point man opens his mouth, undoubtedly to offer up some kind of reassurance, and then closes it again. Instead, he reaches out and takes her free hand, squeezing gently. Before he can let go, the architect latches her fingers around his in mismatched connection. Suddenly painfully shy, Ariadne slowly raises her eyes to Arthur's. As she watches, his eyes darken into a focus of something she can't name. All she knows is the incredible intensity.

That pressure from before has returned, pressing down around them, seeping into their space with the determination of light to banish shadow from every corner of a room. Ariadne is surprised to feel the return of something nearly forgotten—that invisible string that pulled them together in the crisp, clean lobby of an imaginary hotel. She swallows, and tries to convince herself that she just imagined the flicker of his gaze towards her lips.

"Arthur?"

It comes out with all the softness of a breath. He doesn't say anything. His eyebrows furrow a little, as though he's dedicating the utmost concentration in this...this moment. The drum of her heartbeat overtakes her ears, and Ariadne has to press down a sharp inhale as Arthur's thumb draws circle after circle in her palm. She wants to look away but as much as she's afraid of this feeling—of losing herself within the immense depth of his gaze—she's more afraid that breaking away will mean that all this is within her imagination.

Ariadne isn't sure who stepped forward (maybe they both did) but suddenly they're basically sharing air and breathing normally has become the most difficult thing she's ever done. The sharp-edged base of her totem is digging into her palm, still trapped within her pocket. Arthur's free hand rises, slowly, as if to pull her closer, or to cup her cheek—

"Hey! I could use some help here!"

And then it jerks away, so quickly she can feel the rush of disturbed air against her face. Their gaze finally broken, Ariadne can feel the burn in her cheeks, as she stares at her feet. Arthur doesn't say anything, just squeezes her hand one last time. By the time she looks up again, he's disappeared into the hall. Putting a hand to her chest, the architect tries to catch her breath, and wonders why all she wants to do is walk out and punch that locksmith in the face.

Before she can further confuse herself, Ariadne is startled out of her rampant thoughts by her cell phone, buzzing on the kitchen counter.

"Hello?"

" _Ariadne. It's Eames. I need you and Arthur here. Right now."_

"Eames? What—"

He hangs up before she can even ask what's wrong. Swallow a sharp, sudden sting of fear and dread, the architect shoves her phone into her pocket, taking quick strides to her room to grab her keys (before remembering they're now useless and dropping them) and bag. She nearly runs into Arthur in the hall, and he reaches out to steady her. The locksmith is gone.

"Woah, easy."

Things may have been awkward, but they have no time to digest the situation before Arthur takes in her grim expression. "What is it?"

"Eames called. He needs us right away. He didn't say why."

To his credit, the point man doesn't even blink. "Let's go."

When Ariadne and Arthur burst through the warehouse doors, they find Eames standing in barely contained anxiousness before the couch. And sitting there, to their surprise, is—

"Saito?" Her earlier dread mounts to something crushing. "What are you—"

"We have a situation," he replies, not bothering with pleasantries, looking at last like the elder man that he is. Harsh lines burrow around his eyes, storming with worry. "He has gone too far."

"He received this last night. Came straight here."

Eames hands over a manila folder, which Arthur takes in silence. If Ariadne didn't know better, she would have thought his face remained completely impassive, but she did. Surprise. Worry. Fear. It all played across the darkness of his eyes. Before she can ask, he drops the open folder onto the coffee table. In mockingly glossy photos, a young man is depicted, sitting bound in a chair in an entirely stark, grey room. His face is bruised, but she can still pick out familiar features, and eyes that had once gleamed with kindness.

"Connor has taken Kira."


	14. Chapter Fourteen

Ariadne looks like she's going to be sick. Her face is chalk white. After a worried glance over her head at Eames, Arthur puts a hand on her shoulder and gently pushes her into a sitting position on the couch. Only then can he really focus his attention on the matter at hand.

"How?"

Saito inhales deeply, standing in obvious agitation. "He is here on a film studies program that is supposed to last six weeks. It's been only a few days since he's been out of Japan. No one thought anything of his lack of contact; the program is supposed to be extremely strenuous. I received the envelope by mail last night and boarded my jet immediately."

Ariadne sinks deeper into the cushions, putting a hand over her mouth. Her eyes are wide with horror. All three men look down at her, and then up at each other.

"I am so sorry," Arthur says at last. His fist curls around the die still in his pocket. "It was my idea to—"

"Kira knew of the danger involved," Saito cuts in swiftly; his back becoming ramrod straight and eyes steely. "And still he was willing. This is no one's fault but Connor Black's. You all should be best to remember that."

Effectively shut down in his apology, the point man grounds his jaw. "I take it you have not gone to the authorities?"

Saito shakes his head. "I thought it unwise."

Both dream thieves agree. "Has he contacted you further?" asks Eames, after a pause. "Demanded a ransom?"

The business man shakes his head. "There was only this." Reaching into the pocket of his jacket, Saito pulls out a small slip of paper. Typed in a non-descript font, are the words ' _Do you trust them enough to save him?'_

Arthur hands it back before he can crush it in a fit of rage. Ariadne, standing to read over his shoulder, takes a shaking breath. He has to resist the urge to grab her and tell her that this  **isn't her fault** because he knows she's thinking it, to tell her that everything is going to be fine because Kira is going to be fine because Arthur knows that this isn't about Kira.

This is about him.

"He'll call," he informs them, forcing himself to meet Eames's calculating gaze. "Connor's a manipulator. He has to call and enjoy it."

"But why Kira?" Ariadne's voice is quiet, meek. The forger's eyes meet the point man's again. Both know the answer.

"He wants to mess with us," begins Eames carefully. "And since we've got such a tight watch on you, darling..."

"Kira's  **bait**?" she nearly shrieks. The architect looks from Arthur, to Eames, to Saito. "But why is he—"

"Beaten? Because Connor is an ass and likes to be as cruel as he possibly can."

Her head whips to find Saito, eyes wide and imploring because they all know what she's going to say.  _I am so sorry._ "Kira is delighted to have a friend in you, Ariadne." The man's deep voice is filled with that sort of infinite wisdom. He even sounds kind. "You are the reason he is pursuing his dream."

"I am the  _reason_ he was  **kidnapped**." Before any of them can deny this, Arthur's phone rings. He pulls it out, taking one look before hitting speaker phone.

" _Ariadne, huh? Cool name."_

"Kira?" Her voice cracks. "Are you okay? Where are you? God I'm so sorry."

" _Hey, it's okay."_ There is a morbid sort of irony in the way he reassures her, thanks to the way they can all hear the sound of his wheezing breath.  _"To tell you the truth I've been through worse. Uncle Saito's quick on the uptake, isn't he?"_

"Kira." Saito begins to speak in flowing Japanese, which none of them can follow. When Kira replies, he sounds anything but afraid. Ariadne looks at Arthur and as much as he wants to look away because she's asking him to  **do something** **but he can't** , he doesn't. They lock eyes and he tries to tell her how sorry he is that she has to feel this way.

" _I must say Arthur; you really_ do  _need to teach her how to stay unattached."_

"Connor."

Arthur reaches over to take Ariadne's hand in an attempt to ground her; her fingernails dig so hard it hurts. "What do you want?"

" _It's simple Arty."_ His architect's hand constricts even tighter around his. He knows that if this were any other conversation in any other life she would have laughed. A lot. Arthur knows of his tell; that muscle in his jaw that reacts so openly to his agitation. He's sure it's pretty much leaping from his skin.

" _I just want her to know the truth about you. She's reveres you so much...it's disgusting. About time someone set her straight, isn't it? And I want to know what you extracted from David Michelson."_

"That doesn't explain why you dragged Saito's nephew into this. You wanted your job done; he was part of the execution." (An execution that he nearly ruined) He doesn't mention Connor's (still not really explained) attempt to thwart the extraction. Everyone in the room is thinking it.

" _Oh, but this isn't something she can just hear from you, Arthur. Call the kid...incentive."_

"We both know this isn't about her." Control. Detachment. Professionalism. All of it almost comes crashing down. "Right, Connor? This isn't about Ariadne, or the extraction. This is about you and me."

" _My my, such egoism; whatever would dear Grandfather think?"_

He can't do this anymore. "What do you  **want** , Connor?"

" _Tomorrow you will receive a time and location. If you_ _ **and**_ _your pet architect aren't there at precisely that time at that location, I am going to kill dear Kira here and leave his body for you to find. If you try to find him before then I am going to kill him. Do I make myself clear?"_

"Crystal."

" _Don't worry, Saito."_ Connor's tone is so mocking that Arthur can barely resist the desire to smash his phone on the cold warehouse floor.  _"I won't touch another hair on his head. He'll just have to wait for the dream team to come to his rescue."_

Saito does not say anything for a long moment. Until at last, Arthur is surprised to hear him declare: "They will not disappoint."

" _We'll see about that, won't we?"_

The dial tone feels too loud, sounding endlessly within the large space. In spite of all his years cultivating that infallible professionalism, Arthur can't help but attune it to the moment in which fictional characters turn around to find their nightmare standing in the doorway.

**.a.**

**Beat. Beat. Heart beat. Kira. Kira. Kira.**

_"You never know when being attached to the wrong person can become a liability."_

Ariadne never thought she could hate the sound of her own life. Her pulse thrums in her neck, her wrist, into the tips of her fingers and pressing painfully against her ribs. She wonders if Arthur can feel it. Her eyes fix on him, something concrete and real; even more proof that this is real, just like the way she's losing feeling in her hand. His words from so long ago echo almost mockingly inside her head.

"I will return twenty-four hours," Saito says stiffly, looking at Eames who—out of all of them—is the most cognitive right now. The forger nods.

"You will be contacted immediately if anything changes."

To her surprise, Saito turns to her and clasps a hand to her shoulder. Arthur's hand convulses, just for a moment. She forces her eyes to meet the businessman's, in spite of how difficult it is.

"You are a good person, Ariadne. Do not allow Connor Black to change that in you."

She can't even nod. She just gapes, even as Saito turns around and disappears through the back door. The architect barely notices when Eames looks just once at Arthur before also leaving. He too, will return she knows. Though right now she wishes he hadn't, because now Ariadne and Arthur are alone with clasped hands, shadowed years, and uncountable dreams between them.

"Ari."

Arthur tugs her closer and wraps his arm around her. He lets out a breath that tickles the shell of her ear. She doesn't resist, but nor can she really respond. He pulls away but doesn't let go of her hand, tugging gently again to get her feet moving. They make the journey back to her apartment on foot in suffocating silence. Ariadne is almost glad of the way Arthur holds her form upright against his, allowing her face to be shielded from strange eyes.

They look like a couple of people in love, wrapped up in each other completely without real rhyme or reason. From the brief glances she gets of Paris streets, people—who aren't the kind of people who rush around without sparing anything a second look—smile at the pair. She wants to scream at them. Don't they know how horrible people can be? Don't they know the awful things that she and Arthur have done? Don't they know that this—this  **feeling** —she gets isn't going to last because she is Ariadne and he is Arthur and  **this is reality**.

This is not a fairytale.  **This is not a dream.**

The voices of a couple drift through the hall. The new owners of 4C, she realizes, but she's not in the mood to play the gracious neighbour. Once they're safely through the front door, Ariadne slowly relaxes her vice-like grip. Arthur doesn't move away, doesn't say anything, doesn't even start as she leads them to the couch and sinks gratefully into loved cushions. He sits in the middle as Ariadne folds herself around the right armrest, leaning her head tiredly on one arm.

It's quiet for a long time. Despite the silence, Ariadne can  _feel_ Arthur's frustration and anger, rolling off of him like waves lapping up to the shore, only to break and fall away again. It scares her, and she hesitates just long enough in her question for him to turn to her and find it on her lips.

"What happened between you and Connor?"

The following silence is even longer, and even more terrifying. Feeling panic grip her at his lack of response, Ariadne bites her lip. "I won't walk into his hands not knowing why he's doing this is to us."

"You're not going."

His flat out refusal just spurs her further. "Don't be ridiculous, Arthur. I may not know him like you do, but I'm not stupid. I know what it sounds like when a man will make good on his threats."

Arthur isn't even looking at her anymore. If only because she has this weird urge to know, the architect follows the line of his gaze to the fake smouldering embers of her fireplace. Even as her mind asserts this, Ariadne knows in her heart that  _his_ mind is far away from her small apartment living room.

"We should go welcome the new neighbours," he says, flat and unreachable and so unlike even the first time they'd ever met that she almost wants to cry. Instead, she jumps to her feet in brazen anger.

"Don't change the subject. Arthur, I know it's your job to be unfazed and professional and detached, but I know you're not. He gets to you, more than Eames or Cobb or I ever could."

The point man visibly flinches. "You don't know what you're talking about. You've never had to face him—"

Her hand cracks across his face, sending it snapping to the right. "What. About.  **This**." Ariadne rips the scarf from around her neck. The scar is glaringly white against her skin, inching even past the scooping neckline of her shirt. She's shaking. "You have no idea how scared I was." Her voice wavers, but only slightly. "I thought he was going to—"

"Don't say it. Don't even think it." He's angry with her.

"Too late!" She flings her scarf in his face. "I think about it every night. Every night I dream he's there, pressing my back against the wall and floor and twirling that god damn knife around and his hand—" The rest of the words tumble out as a strangled noise. Arthur's face is tight, pained, looking once again old beyond his years as he runs a hand over it. Chest heaving, Ariadne can barely summon more words.

" _Please."_ She's begging but she doesn't care. " **Let me in** , Arthur. Don't you...don't you trust me?"

He is silent. The rearing pain inside her chest sends Ariadne flying across the living room. Her bedroom door slams shut, and her scarf—her favourite scarf—lies forgotten on the floor.

**.a.**

It's been almost half an hour and she hasn't come out. Arthur almost wants to knock down her door and force her back to him, but he doesn't. He's still not sure why he wasn't able to say "Yes," when she'd asked for his trust. It was there, already standing on the tip of his tongue, but he'd paused too long. Arthur wonders if she'll still trust him after this. He stands before the door, raising one hand to knock. It's been lifted there for nearly a minute before he drops in back to his side, leaning forward to press his forehead against the wood.

"I'm sorry, Ariadne." He doesn't even know if she's listening. "I do trust you. I just..."

Lost for words for the second time of his life, Arthur turns and slides to the floor, his back against the door. "Connor hates me." He has to raise his voice in the hopes that he will reach her. "He thinks I...he thinks I killed his sister." A shuffling sound reaches his ears. Feeling hopeful, the point man continues to push out the words that may redeem him.

"I interned at the Black Industries in the States when I was seventeen. One day Mitchell Black called me into his office, and asked me if I knew how the military was currently training its soldiers. He had a silver brief case on his desk, opened with something I had never seen before inside. He called it a PASIV. He told me the military was using dream technology to train men, that this machine allowed them to share lucid dreams, training and bonding them.

Mitchell asked if I was interested in learning the art of dream sharing. I was eager to please, so I said yes. It sounded so unlike anything I'd ever heard of. And then I met Connor, Mitchell's grandson. He and I were taught together in secret. Eventually we learned that what we were doing was illegal, but it was too late then. We were in too deep. Mitchell taught us how to warp everything, how to control the environment, to know that even the slightest detail can push your mind to realizing that it's dreaming.

It was just a coincidence that we happened to be attending the same university. We were friends I guess, friendly competitors as we tried to one up each other inside dreams, see how long we could go before our projections ousted us. We'd only been in school for two years when Black Industries relocated to Paris. We didn't want to be in school anymore. We wanted to make money dreaming, but neither of us really knew how and Mitchell didn't want to say, no matter how we pressed him.

In our last year I met Connor's sister Zoe. She was...she was beautiful. She was funny, smart, and stubborn; I liked her immediately, but Connor was dead set against us seeing each other. After Connor and I finished with university, Zoe and I tried to deal with how we felt, because neither of us wanted to upset Connor. She was his baby sister. This wasn't like that girl we both liked, that I broke it off with anyway weeks later. This could destroy whatever camaraderie I had with him, and I didn't want Mitchell to shut me out if Connor and I had a rift."

Arthur swallows, his throat dry, fisting his die in one hand. "Zoe and I danced around each other for that whole year, until finally Zoe decided that we were all adults and if Connor couldn't treat her like one, he'd just have to deal with the fact she and I would see each other whether he liked it or not. She was on her way to see me the same night after she'd confronted him when she was hit by a drunk driver."

His throat is thick with tears he hasn't shed in years. Arthur leans his head back on the door, closing his eyes and trying to keep it together. "She died in the hospital. The last thing she ever told me was that she wouldn't take back that night, that she didn't regret anything she'd ever felt for me and that—"

It's a long minute before the words will come out. "That it wasn't my fault, no matter who told me otherwise."

He can hear her shuffling again; can hear the sound of the doorknob turning. "Wait, Ari," he says. "Wait. There's more."

It is quiet again. Arthur takes a ragged breath as images of brilliant blue eyes and strawberry blonde hair fill the darkness behind his eyes.

"Dom came to Mitchell a few months after Zoe's funeral. He was an extractor needing a point man. Here at last was the profit we'd always imagined, but at the time neither of us wanted it any longer. Dom gave us a long time to mull it over, and six months later he was back. Even though I was at peace with her, I dreamt of only Zoe, and grasped at the opportunity to see something different. Connor, however still begrudging of me, wanted it equally.

It was our first job. We were supposed to extract information from a man, supposedly related to nuclear warheads. It was going fine until the mark finally realized, and the projections swarmed. The safe was in reach, ajar, but Dom was taken quickly. Connor just wanted out. He wanted to lie about the secret, because  _how's Cobb going to know?_

I tried to argue. The dream was collapsing all around us, and I was panicking. I just made for the safe, but that's when I heard the gunshot."

Deep breath. "It was Zoe."

Another deep breath. And another. "She shot Connor. He was dying. I—" His voice is hoarse. "I shot her. I shot her and she lay dead at Connor's feet. He tried to get up, tried to wrap his bare hands around my neck but he'd lost too much blood so quickly. I had to lay him down and rip the safe door open. I pulled out the secret and then I shot myself in the head."

The door swings open without warning. It's only thanks to years of training that Arthur manages to pull the momentum into a complete flip, landing steadily on both feet. His hand is already hovering over the gun tucked away at his back. Catching himself, the point man relaxes. He's never been inside Ariadne's room before. Drawings and models are chaotically strewn around the room, though the bed is made neatly in contrast. Arthur carefully allows his gaze to find hers.

Ariadne's lovely eyes are full of tears.

**.a.**

"Arthur...I'm so sorry." She can barely get the words out. "I shouldn't have—"

"It's okay, Ari." She can't be sure, but he almost looks relieved underneath newly crafted composure. "I should have told you sooner. I should have told  _someone_  sooner."

Ariadne is afraid to ask, but she does anyway. "Zoe...does she still..."

Arthur shakes his head. "Never." He knows what she's thinking. "Mal was Cobb's guilt, living as a shade inside his subconscious. Zoe is a dear memory now. Nothing more."

The sadness now plain in his eyes makes her heart break.

Silence prevails again, as Ariadne tries to come to grips with what she's just heard. It makes morbid, solemn sense, but it's still with a painful sort of nervousness that she looks at him. The quiet begins to settle into something familiar, something old and nearly forgotten. The architect is thrown back to the first days of her work with Arthur and Cobb. She'd been so nervous, so eager; every so often she'd look up from her work, only to find Arthur watching her very intently from across the room. Blushing, she'd always avert her eyes.

It was scary at first, but eventually they'd relaxed around one another, slowly become friends, and now they're here. Standing here in her room as the whispering shadows of Arthur's story slowly disappear, and she can breathe again. Ariadne begins to relax, rubbing at her eyes with one hand. Things can only go up from here, right? It's what she's hoping.

"Thank you for telling me. And um, I'm glad you trust me."

He nods, slowly. "Of course I do."

Trying to strengthen her thinning resolve, Ariadne lifts her chin, staring him stubbornly and resolutely in the eye. "I'm going with you. You're not alone in this, whether you want to be or not."

It's cliché of course, but that doesn't make it any less true. Arthur just keeps looking at her, until the sorrow in his gaze lifts like a veil, spurring hope deep inside her gut.

"I know."


	15. Chapter Fifteen

Ariadne—or some part of her at least—is jealous of Will and Brielle Scott.

Brielle is thin and willowy, with deep red hair and iridescent green eyes. Her face is inexplicably kind looking, reminding the architect of Kira in a gut wrenching sort of way. Will Scott has warm hazel eyes that soften the lines on his angular, thin face, and blonde hair that falls in that classically messy way over his forehead. They both look so happy upon opening the door to Ariadne and Arthur's knock that she almost wants to turn around and bolt, if only to spare them the undoubted after effect of having interacted with them.

It's not that they're beautiful, or even that they're so obviously, brilliantly, happily married. Ariadne is jealous because they are  _together_ ,  **safe** , in love so completely, without fear, and unselfconsciously. They never have to hesitate, or look over their shoulders, and she can't help but envy that.

"So how long have you two been together?"

The architect, who'd been watching Arthur and Will out of the corner of her eye across the room, starts and looks back at Brielle. "Sorry?"

"I asked how long it's been," says the woman with a smile, inclining her head in the men's direction. "You and Arthur."

"Oh! Erm," Ariadne wonders if she looks as warm as she feels. "I'm not sure exactly, to be honest. We've been friends for a while, but recently things have..."

"Changed?" Brielle offers, smiling a knowing smile. Realizing that this must be a 'married' sort of internal gauge, the architect just nods. "Changed in a good way?"

There is a pause, before Ariadne says "I hope so," in a disconcerting rush of honesty. "We don't want to screw up, you know?"

The redhead nods, and she knows that Brielle must understand. "It's scary, isn't it? That rush of unknown, but the thrill of this feeling that you love so much and want to keep so badly."

Perhaps it is the stress of the situation, or the shock of having her crazed mind laid to rest with two simple sentences (to have her feelings spelled out so plainly by a near complete stranger). Or maybe it's the fact that Ariadne is ticklish to an extreme degree. Whatever the case, the architect is unable to stop the ridiculous shriek that bursts from her lips as Arthur's long fingers find her sensitive side, and she jumps, nearly knocking her head into Arthur's chin.

His laugh is deep and husky in her burning ears. The offending hand leaves her side to grasp her hand instead, for which Ariadne is glad. Will and Brielle wear twin, small smiles of barely contained amusement. "So it's nice to meet you two," says Will in an obvious attempt to spare Ariadne of further embarrassment. "I hope we'll see you guys around."

"Well it's technically Ari's apartment, so I hope so too." Arthur's smile is quirky and crooked with mirth, and the architect has to blink several times to make sure she's not just imagining it. She blushes as the couple before them chuckles warmly. Scott and Arthur shake hands with a nod, while Brielle reaches out to clasp Ariadne's hand in her own.

"We have to go shopping or something soon, okay?"

Ariadne smiles, their happiness spilling from them and blocking out the clouds of fear and desperation that had hovered so ominously over her since Kira's capture. Arthur squeezes her hand without letting go, keeping his hold even as they leave apartment 4C and enter their own. The pair makes a beeline for the couch, and Ariadne puts her feet up on Arthur's lap, ignoring his bemused expression.

"You're lucky I love them."

"Pardon?" Arthur shoots her the point-man version of a quizzical look, which is a cool, raised eyebrow and questioning eyes. Ariadne twists her lips, frowning.

"Will Scott is from Black Industries. He was the man standing outside Mitchell's door the first time you took me there."

His replying expression is half-surprised, half-not, if Ariadne had to call it anything. She shoots him a look. "Do you really think I've learned so little? You got him to watch the apartment."

It's barely an accusation, but rather just a weary fact. Arthur opens his mouth, but then closes it, running a hand over his suddenly tired face. "You should really spend less time with me. You've started to pick up my habits." It's the point man's dry, flat version of sarcasm.

"Well we're supposed to be together, so I guess that'll be a little hard, don't you think?"

She doesn't mean to snap, but it comes out with an edge anyway. Ashamed with herself, the architect looks down at her favourite afghan that Arthur had thrown over her when they'd sat down. It's a deep navy blue—a boy colour, probably—that reminds her of the team, not that she could explain why. She's had it for over a decade; the last gift her grandmother gave her before passing away. Ariadne picks at the worn material to distract herself from the silence.

After several moments a large hand covers hers, and she curses herself for being so sensitive. It's not just him, she tells herself. Eames would do something like this too. Hell, he'd probably be the one moving in two doors away. So why does the idea that  **Arthur** thinks she needs protection bother her so much? Because she thinks herself strong? (Not.) Capable? (Not enough.) Because of some ridiculous notion that Connor regards as fact? That Arthur thinks himself better? (Of course not.)

It's because the more protection she needs, the more danger he faces. Ariadne knows that Arthur would shove her out of harm's way, even stand in front of her and face whatever danger awaited her. She knows it's not some stupid macho male desire, but an instinct to keep her safe. Ariadne sort of begrudges him for that, because  **she would stand in front of him** , if only he would let her.

"I'm sorry."

They say it in near-perfect synchronization, which causes a small smile to break across her lips. "I just don't want them to get hurt." The thought twists her insides painfully. Arthur takes her hand that he covers and uses it to pull her closer to him. Unresisting, Ariadne slings her arm across his torso and settles her head underneath his chin.

"Will's one of the best," Arthur tells her in what she's sure is supposed to be a reassuring tone, but it doesn't work this time. "And Connor's never seen him. They'll be fine. I didn't want anyone getting suspicious because you just happened to know the couple moving in after all these weeks."

The architect doesn't reply. Arthur wraps one arm around her, holding her tight, while running his fingers through her hair with the other. Ariadne sighs in half-contentment, half-exhaustion. She has no idea what time it is. If she had to guess, it's probably around dinner time, but she's not hungry. Eventually she dozes off to the steady rhythm of Arthur's fingers, and the sound of him humming a slow, haunting song in her ear.

**.a.**

"Ari..." His voice is low and careful, far away as if from an echo.

Muttering something unintelligible, Ariadne makes a face before opening bleary eyes. Arthur comes into focus slowly, a tender expression on his beautiful face. "Arthur?"

"Hey there sleepyhead." He almost smiles, but even through the haze she can see the tense storm brewing behind his eyes. "We should get you to bed."

Blinking rapidly, the architect searches the room for the time, and then remembers she doesn't keep a clock in the living room. "What time is it?"

"Almost midnight."

She lurches up in surprise, and it's only Arthur's grip that keeps Ariadne from tumbling to the floor. "Why didn't you wake me?"

"You need sleep," he says matter of factly. The architect makes another face at him.

"So do you," she points out. Before anything else can be said, or Ariadne can even move to stand up, she lets out an undignified yelp as Arthur puts a hand underneath her knees before  _literally_ sweeping her up into his arms. "What the hell—what are you doing?"

"Getting you to bed." His face is completely straight, which only serves to make her want to hit him. So she does. "Arthur! Please stop being ridiculous."

He doesn't reply. He doesn't even flinch. So with an angry huff and roll of her eyes, Ariadne just focuses her attention to the grip she has around his neck. It feels like the only thing holding her up, even though that's definitely not true. They make the rest of the journey to her bed in silence, broken only when her back hits the mattress and his form lurches forward into hers. The architect inhales sharply as their noses nearly crack together. Her mind begins to race, images of Kira and Connor dominating her thoughts.

"I don't want to dream," she says in a breathless whisper, feeling like a four year old afraid of the monsters lurking under the bed. That tender look in his eyes again, Arthur wordlessly smoothes her hair back and rolls over to lie beside her. Almost automatically, Ariadne curls herself up into his side and puts her head on his chest, while the steady rise and fall of his chest and beat of his heart lull her back into dreamless sleep.

**.a.**

The message comes at an absurdly early hour; something close to four thirty in the morning. Ariadne is already awake, lying still against Arthur and watching him. His face is incredibly relaxed and untroubled, and he looks about a thousand times more peaceful than he does while awake. She would have thought him to be more guarded even in rest, before remembering that the point man no longer dreams this way. She's still unsure whether or not to be unsettled by the idea.

His phone buzzes on the bedside table, and Ariadne is only a little startled to see Arthur's eyes open almost immediately, his features settling quickly into the Point Man Face. She rolls up and away from him, surprised when he reaches out to grasp her hand while simultaneously reaching for his phone. "Six am," he reads, followed by an address Ariadne doesn't recognize (not that she expected to). Before she can think of anything remotely appropriate to say, he's already in gear.

"Go ahead and get ready, Ari. I have to call them."

By 'them' she knows he means Eames and Saito. Arthur's thumb brushes across the pulse point of her wrist; the gesture now equally comforting as it is thrilling in that shiver it always evokes. Ariadne gives his hand a squeeze before leaving the bed altogether to collect clothes and head for the shower. Allowing herself a few minutes alone, the architect lets the hard pressure of the water undo the stressed knots in her back. She forces her mind to focus on getting Kira back, safe and sound, and not the person who kidnapped him.

Once dressed with her hair curling damply around face, Ariadne wanders out to the living room with her totem clenched in one hand. Arthur sits on the couch, an immovable statue of a hardened man, holding something gauzy and pink in his hands: her scarf. It's with a burn in her cheeks that Ariadne recalls the events of what's technically now yesterday. "Arthur?"

The gaze he fixes her with roots her, bewildered, to the ground. She's not sure if an earthquake could move her right now, yet in spite of this assertion the architect doesn't really understand why, or how. Such, she realizes, is the grip Arthur has on her. The thought is distinctly unnerving. Ariadne is unable to find her voice again, even as he crosses the room to stand before her, holds up the scarf and ties it around her neck without breaking eye contact. She has to grip her totem so tightly her arm trembles. He doesn't catch a single hair.

Ariadne is unable to speak, unable to gasp, unable to really draw in a proper breath when Arthur's lips descend onto hers and his arms pull them together in a kiss that is as bruising as it is beautiful. Her soft curves are crushed against his rigid lines in that wondrous, mismatched connection that—in spite of everything—draws a feeling of wholeness from that place deep inside that Ariadne is mostly afraid to go.

She can do nothing but respond. She can feel the shock of feeling reverberating from his body to hers, can taste the uncertainty and desperation and  **need**  in his lips. The architect and point man stand there in that electric, enthralling, terrifying space until they can breathe no longer and are forced to pull apart. The rush of air actually causes Ariadne's vision to falter for a moment, until she's left just barely upright and shaking with a force she didn't know her body possessed, while their hearts beat together in that forceful, uneven rhythm.

"Ari..." Arthur's deep, rough exhale of her name is noticeably unsteady as he leans his forehead against hers. The contact is grounding, even as the sound causes a tremor that she knows he can feel down her back. Ariadne can only focus enough to draw breath, even as he continues to speak with that exact same tremor-inducing tone.

"Remember what you promised me. No matter what happens."

It's not often she gets a command. A forceful request, perhaps, but never without the softest lifting note of a question. This is an order.

"That sounds like a goodbye, Arthur," is what she manages to get out after several ragged breaths. It felt like one too. She can't even find the strength to add sarcasm. "It better not be. Everything is going to be fine."

"Shouldn't you be worried?" The architect is starting to. That sounds like derision in his voice. "You're the one reassuring me."

"I figured I was up. You just do it so often." Ariadne considers this small amount of wit in her current state a huge accomplishment. And then another thought sobers her triumph. "Remember what  _you_ promised  **me**."

He kisses her again, softly and slowly this time. When he breaks away that vulnerability from nearly a dream ago returns and all she can do is stare. They are still pressed so close that the architect can feel his words as they rumble through his chest. "I do."

Arthur's eyes are alit with a confusing almost-question that feels too much like pleading for comfort. She knows what he's asking. Taking a deep breath, Ariadne says the only thing she can think of, and watches as the question dissolves into that hardened, piercing, point-man-professional resolve that she knows so well.

"Then I do too."

It's only at the last second—before the apartment door closes behind them—that Ariadne realizes Arthur never denied her accusation of solemn farewell.

**.a.**

The Parisian address leads them to what looks like a somewhat dilapidated office building. The revolving door no longer moves, although there is another regular-looking door to its' side. Ariadne almost groans. Why couldn't it have been a one room warehouse? It would have made finding Kira so much simpler, and she wouldn't have even found it in herself to care about the ridiculous cliché. Connor or even goons she can picture him having are nowhere to be seen. So there's only one other option: in.

"Are—"

"Watching," he replies simply, and the architect has to force herself not to scour the surrounding buildings and alleys for the dark shapes of shadowed men. She and Arthur had made the journey on foot from several blocks down, holding hands and keeping secretly strained smiles. They hold each other close, as though the only reason they're up at this still-dark hour is to be able to spend more time together. Ariadne's heart thumps so loudly in her chest that she finds herself fearful anyone in the nearly empty street can hear it.

"Take this." Arthur presses that silver revolver from her nightmares into her now shaking hand. "Only if you have to, okay?"

Nodding and swallowing her fear, Ariadne tucks it into the waistband of her jeans, where she's sure they'll find it but that's beside the point. The metal is cold against her spine. As much as she wants to keep it fisted in her hand, she's tucked her totem away in a pocket of her shirt, hidden beneath layers and actually undetectable even in a pat down. It digs kind of comfortingly against her body. Besides, having only one hand free is bad enough.

Arthur puts one hand on the handicapped door button as she grasps a fistful of his soft, cotton dress shirt and holds on. "If we run," he says without looking back. "You stay in front of me. Don't stop running, understand? Not for anything." Ariadne tries not to think of the implications. "Go to Will's apartment. He'll know what to do."

"I understand." She hopes her voice doesn't quiver. He opens the door and immediately returns his hand to join the other around his gun. It looks like a run of the mill building lobby. Even from the entrance, Ariadne can see the layer of dust that coats everything nearly perfectly. Nearly. "See that?" she asks, the question seeming too loud in the emptiness and gloom. "Disturbed dust, footprints maybe? Towards the elevator."

"Maybe Miles was wrong." Before she can ask what he's talking about, Arthur has begun to move, and she has to concentrate on following. "Maybe you should have been point."

The architect is tempted to laugh, but doesn't even crack a smile. "We'll take that up with him once we're out of here."

They make it to the elevator without incident, before Ariadne notices something. "A down button on the main floor?"

"There's most likely a basement. Or underground parking. The entrance could be on the other side of the building."

"And how many floors does this place have?"

"At least a dozen. But you're right," he says, before she can even form the words. "He's not just going to have us spend hours searching every floor. We should know where they are."

Ariadne rolls her eyes. "Because mind reading is totally within the realm of our abilities."

She thinks he chuckles, although the sound is hollow. "Think of the photos. All grey."

Arthur looks down at her as the architect sighs a little to herself. "Basement it is, then. You'd think he'd be a little more original."

"I'm sure Connor has a plan." He says it with a dark, ominous sense of warning, although Ariadne can hear the underlying resignation. Arthur knows Connor better than anyone, and she knows that he's right. This isn't going to be as easy as she wished it was.

The elevator is almost frighteningly old, and makes a series of disconcerting noises as it carries them to the basement floor. Ariadne clenches and unclenches her free fist nervously, wishing she could hold onto her totem. There is no dinging sound to announce their arrival. The doors simply shudder open for what feels like minutes before finally revealing that dimly-lit, stark grey room that they had first glimpsed in those mockingly glossy photos.

Kira is disturbingly still beneath a barely functioning light bulb; the room's only source of light. Ariadne has to press her trembling fist into Arthur's back in an effort to stay where she is. If she's hurting him, the point man doesn't even acknowledge it. They are still for several minutes at least, but Ariadne doesn't ask why. They're waiting for Connor, who would never just let them leave unscathed.

There is dried blood caked around Kira's hairline, and dark bruises on his face visible even from a dozen feet away in such weak light. She's not sure, but it looks to Ariadne that at least one of his eyes is swollen shut. If she concentrates, she can just make out the tiny rise and fall of his chest, uneven, but there. Does that mean ribs are broken? The architect curses her lack of knowledge in combat and injury.

"So prompt. Grandfather would be proud."

She jumps. She can't help it. Ariadne focuses her energy on following the twist of Arthur's upper body as his gun swings into the corner behind Kira, to that space just beyond the light's reach. It's like one of those mob movie scenes that she could never stomach. Connor and his goons materialize in a ridiculous show of slow, fluid movement, until they stand half in and half out of shadow. It helps to imagine them with ridiculously sized eyebrows and noses, since she can't see those particular parts of their faces.

They're technically outnumbered two guns to one, since Ariadne hasn't drawn hers and doubts she could land anything remotely close to a crippling shot. Despite knowing this, the architect yearns to blow the smug smirk off of Connor's disgusting lips.

"Let them leave, Connor." Arthur's voice is ever steady, but it contains a hint of deadliness that Ariadne's never heard before. Her heart begins to race, and she shifts closer to him. "We both know I'm the real person you want cornered here."

"Oh, but whatever will I use to convince you to stay and chat, Arthur? Your precious architect will certainly do the trick." Connor's smirk widens into a twisted, amused smile. "And what would old Saito say if you returned without his darling nephew?" Ariadne's stomach drops and she forces herself to the right, so she can at least see Arthur's face.

"Here's how this is going to work, Arthur. You will drop your gun. She is going to untie her friend here, and  _my_ friend is going to help her escort him to the elevator. You will take Kira up and outside by yourself, and then come back to join the fun." Ariadne wonders if all evil villains look half-crazed while trying to be funny. "If you return with another weapon or more friends, I am going to kill them both and make you watch. Understand?"

That muscle in Arthur's jaw jerks viciously as he nods curtly, just once. "Do as he says." Another command.

Ariadne looks at her fist, nearly lost in the bunched up material of his shirt.  _Let go,_  she tells it, but it refuses. Three tries later her grip finally releases, and it takes a minute for the blood to start flowing again. The architect chances another glance at Arthur, whose gaze is trained resolutely on Connor. Forcing air into her lungs, Ariadne slowly makes her way to Kira. Pushing down her fear, she reaches one hand to touch his face as gently as she can.

"Kira?" She thinks she sees his eyelashes flutter. "Kira, it's me. Ariadne." At last, his right eye opens. She watches his pupil dilate as he tries to focus on her.

"Ari..?" he rasps, and Ariadne has to close her eyes in an effort to still her shaking. She tries to smile, although she's pretty sure it comes out a grimace.

"I'm going to get you out of here, okay? Try and hold still." Thankfully the knots holding him to the chair are basic, and the architect manages after a few moments. "Can you stand?"

The young man lets out something that sounds like a strangled, forced chuckle. Hastily, Ariadne carefully takes one of his elbows, while Connor's unnamed brute takes the other. Slowly, painstakingly, they move to Arthur, who steps aside and opens the elevator. Ariadne's body screams with the instinct to just throw herself in after Kira, but the muzzle of Brute One's gun between her shoulder blades shuts down the command. So she's stuck, locking eyes with Arthur as he backs into the elevator and the doors close, leaving her alone.

"Won't you join me, Ariadne?"

It's not like she has a choice. Clamping her mouth shut, Ariadne catches herself on her own stumble, turning around as the gun is jerked into her back. She stands as far away from Connor as the gun will allow. Connor, with his revolting smirk, reaches out to finger a lock of her hair. Swallowing bile, Ariadne fists her hands and curls her toes to stay unmoving. She figures jerking away from him will only earn her a smack in the face. Or, the butt end of a gun across the back of her head.

The minutes drag by agonizingly slowly, and the only thing that Ariadne can find in herself to be glad about is that Connor has yet to try anything, other than his weird hair twirling. She keeps her eyes locked on the elevator doors, only allowing herself to draw a real, deep breath when they finally open to reveal Arthur, alone and apparently still unarmed. The architect looks down at his gun on the floor, thinking back to that painful training dream. It's too far away to jump at. She'd probably be dead before hitting the floor.

"Now." Connor is enjoying this to an unhealthy degree. "Let's get started, shall we?"

And so it's with a rude mental hand gesture and string of silent curses to the higher powers that Ariadne watches a bright silver case slide across the floor and land in that barely visible space at Arthur's feet.


	16. Chapter Sixteen

It's a PASIV.

She knows, even before Brute Two lumbers over to the case—apparently not minding being the new focus of Arthur's aim—and opens it. The red-lit timer set at 00:00 seems to taunt her. Ariadne glares at it, before lifting her eyes to meet Arthur's. He's not surprised, that much she can tell. Beneath the nearly impenetrable mask of calm, the architect is glad to see the smallest flicker of reassurance in Arthur's gaze, directed at her.  _It's going to be okay._

Her breath catches before she can stop it. Ariadne's mind flashes unbidden to that smouldering, intense pair of eyes that had so convincingly bore the idea into her brain, on her bed not that long ago. She supposes thinking of that moment; of that flush in her face and the way he'd been unresisting to her lack of words, is better than thinking about  _this_  moment, in which painful futures are undoubtedly on the horizon.

"Come here."

Connor grabbing her by the arm jolts Ariadne out of her reverie.  _Keep calm._ Arthur is being tugged similarly by Brute Two, until they stand several feet apart beneath the shady light. Brute One hands a catheter to Connor and to each of his captives, before placing the case on the floor halfway between them. Ariadne watches Arthur place the IV into his wrist before carefully doing the same. At least the Brutes aren't trying to find her vein and jab it in for her.

"Now lie down. Can't have you accidentally being Kicked, can we?"

Feeling incredibly vulnerable, the architect does as asked, trying not to think about how dirty this floor is. The gun now digs painfully into her back. Ariadne frantically tries to rearrange her expression, but Connor has noticed, and narrows his eyes down at her. "What's wrong? Uncomfortable, are we?" He turns to a Brute, inclining his head, and Ariadne lets out a gasp as she is yanked to her feet by her hair.

Eyes watering, she twists away even as Connor reaches down the waistband of her jeans and pulls out the revolver. He seems to consider the weapon in his hand for a long moment. The architect, held in place by Brute One, can only jerk her head to the side with a gasp as Connor back hands her across the face with the revolver still gripped in his fist. Vision swimming, Ariadne regains her focus only to see Arthur back on his feet, and a silver barrel pointed at her face.

"Get down, Arthur. Both of you."

She can feel the bruise forming. The dim light makes everything even hazier after the stunning contact. Right before she drops into unconsciousness, Ariadne turns her head to find Arthur, eyes just visible over the top edge of the case. She wants to look away. She can read the apology in his gaze, wants to tell him he has  _nothing_ to be sorry about, but she'd rather have apologetic, familiar eyes be the last thing she sees than nothing at all.

**.a.**

_This isn't good._

_That's Ariadne's first thought entering Connor's dream, as she and Arthur are ripped away from each other by brutal projections and pulled to either side of an eerily cold, similarly grey room. Contrarily to reality though, this dream room is small, only marginally bigger than her bedroom. Connor just stands in the centre, grinning that sadist's grin, as Ariadne is horrified to have her wrists shackled on separate chains to the wall behind her back. She won't pull. She refuses to give him the satisfaction of watching her struggle._

" _A little medieval, don't you think?"_

_The quip is what her brain comes up with for her lips to say, as it tries to figure out how Connor is_ _**controlling his projections** _ _, something that she's never heard Cobb or Arthur even mention was possible. Two others are trying to contend with Arthur, but are no match. Before Ariadne can fully comprehend what's happening, the point man has lunged at Connor and the next several seconds are just a whirling tangle of limbs and curses. From what she can tell, Arthur lands several good punches. She's tempted to cheer him on, but doesn't._

_She doesn't see the projection before it's too late. A large, burly man twists one arm behind her back before she can cry out, before she can yell for help, and breaks fingers before Ariadne knew she could scream so loud._

_It's as though someone fired a gun. Arthur is frozen beneath Connor, staring at her as the architect tries to push the tears back. Having never broken a bone before, the pain is unlike anything she's ever experienced. Connor is smiling through a split lip and quickly blackening eye. "Now you see what will happen if you try something like that again. Understand, Arthur?" The sandy blonde proceeds to get to his feet, while Arthur follows slowly. His eyes are trying to find hers, and finally they do._

" _I'm okay," Ariadne gasps as the projection steps away, receding into shadow. She raises a violently shaking hand to her face, paling even further at the sight of her pinkie and ring fingers, bent at unnatural angles. The architect forces her gaze back to Arthur's, trying with all her might to sound convincing. "I'm okay."_

" _Great." She's never wanted to punch Connor Black more than in this moment. "Down to business." He pulls out a gun, pointing it at Arthur's head. The point man raises his arms over his head, still looking at Ariadne. Arthur is prodded to the centre of the room and Ariadne wants to be anywhere else, because she knows what that gun means. She hates the colour red._

" _What did you extract from David Michelson?"_

_Silence._

_There's that resignation again. "Close your eyes," he says, softly, and Ariadne doesn't hesitate in listening. She can't put her hands over her ears now that her fingers are broken, but she wouldn't have been able to move fast enough anyway. Her ears ring with the loud noise in such a small space, and Arthur's cry of pain seems to echo. But maybe that's the dream._

" _If you do not open your eyes right now I am going to break your arm."_

_She's not ashamed to admit that tears blur her vision of Arthur, collapsed to his knees with a small pool of blood beneath his left leg. Her stomach twists, and the architect is glad she didn't eat anything upon waking this morning. Sweat shines on his forehead, but Arthur's eyes are still poignantly clear. Determined. Ariadne sets her jaw. He is strong. He will make it._

" _No?" Connor is, once again, enjoying this too much. Even the ignoring of his demand. "Care to tell me now?"_

_The point man is still stubbornly quiet as the butt of the gun cracks across his face. Ariadne can only stand there in horrified silence as Connor grounds Arthur's hand under his shoe, kicks him in the side, and yanks him brutally back up by the shirt collar, pressing the gun into his temple. He puts his mouth close to Arthur's ear, but she can still hear the words._

" _You were always good with pain, Arthur. I meant to just graze your leg, you know. Can't have you bleeding out and leaving early. Breaking your right hand was deliberate. I know it's your gun hand." Connor fists Arthur's hair, pulling his bruised face up to where Ariadne can just barely meet his eyes._

" _What about your girl? How's your precious architect with pain? I bet she's never been shot before. But I hear a knife will just do the trick. Don't you think?"_

_The part of Ariadne concerned with her well-being is overridden by the part of her that is relieved, in watching Connor leave Arthur slumped on the floor. Some part of her brain functions enough to wonder if you can actually conjure objects from thin air in dreamscape (instead of pulling them from somewhere else), or if there's some rule, like in Harry Potter. Later, Ariadne will marvel at her brain's ability to make such references in situations like this. But now she's just focused on the knife that's magically appeared in Connor's hand._

" _I bet you have a scar."_

_She refuses to respond, able to control only her voice as her body backs away from the blade without instruction. Ariadne sucks in a breath as Connor yanks her scarf from her neck and that still functioning part of her brain asks if it's possible to have a fear-induced heart attack. Connor drags the knife over her exposed collarbone without drawing blood, but it leaves that white mark one gets from a scratch. She can't breathe. She can't think. It feels like she's being weighted down to the floor._

" _Automatic weaponry."_

_It takes her several seconds to realize that the knife is gone. Ariadne's gaze zeros in on Arthur, still looking worse for wear, giving Connor what he wants with a hint of defiance still left in his voice. The Black stalks over, revelling in his victory, and the architect takes the opportunity to move as far to the right as the chains will allow. Blood still pumping, Ariadne watches as Connor considers Arthur's words from above his head, before that disgusting smile slides from his face._

_She starts towards them, knowing that the chains will stop her but_ _**she has to try** _ _because she knows that look. Calculated disbelief._

" _I think you're lying."_

_Ariadne stops short as blood splatters against the edge of her shoes. Arthur clutches at his shoulder with his unbroken hand, his face twisted in a grimace. She has to force her eyes away, up to Connor, and draw a strong enough breath to scream, "He's not lying! That's all there was!"_

_He ignores her. "What did you extract?"_

_She can barely hear Arthur now. "Automatic weaponry. He was dealing it. Black market."_

_The gun reacquaints itself with the point man's jaw. Ariadne can't even summon a glimmer of satisfaction at Connor's obvious frustration. "Remember this moment," he says, low and dangerous, "Because you asked for it. Ariadne and I will be going outside now. Maybe we'll meet someone interesting on the way."_

_Arthur jerks, begins to rise, but Connor kick him harshly in the stomach, despite Ariadne's screams. She's pulling with everything she's got; she thinks she hears a shoulder pop, knows she's broken a bone in at least one of her wrists, but she's ignorant to the pain because Arthur's_ _**right there** _ _, so close, and she has to touch him, tell him everything's going to be okay—_

_And then the resistance disappears, sending Ariadne flying forward. She nearly forgets her fingers, but manages not to crash into Arthur, landing in an undignified, painful heap just inches away. Eyes streaming, dizzy with pain, the architect crawls the remaining distance. Her wrists are still shackled, a small length of chain dangling freely as she tries to pull them both up off the floor. "Arthur..." She can barely get his name out, but she says it, over and over until finally dazed, dark eyes find hers._

" _It's going to be okay." Ariadne has no idea why she's whispering, but she's finally able to string a sentence together so she's not going to question it. "We're going to be fine. It's just a dream. We'll be okay, I promise." It's the need to reassure him more than it is the truth. They both know this._

" _Ari..." There. Some of that focus. "Don't..." He coughs, blood spurting from his lips, and she wipes it away before thinking about it too much. Her hand is stained red. "Don't believe him."_

_Arthur's gaze is so dark and burning that Ariadne doesn't even question it, despite her confusion. She just nods, swallowing, gulping in air. The architect barely manages to seize his left hand, press her thumb against the inside of his wrist, before Connor grabs her by the arm and drags her back onto her feet._

" _How cute. A nickname." He's leering now, his words hot and heavy in her ear. She has to stamp down the urge to spit in his face, to lash out, to_ _ **get away from him**_ _, because at least now he's away from Arthur. "Shall we?"_

_Ariadne is ninety percent sure that door wasn't there before. The sun outside is blinding, and she can't stop her brain before it notices this air isn't tainted with the scent of blood. Connor's grip is vice-like on her arm as they step onto a street lined with projections, going about their business and taking no notice of them. The architect glares at them all. Where the hell where they two minutes ago?_

_It takes her a minute to realize they've been following the same two people this entire time. Ariadne swallows her noise of surprise upon the realization that the dark-haired profile is, in fact, Arthur. She'd recognize that chuckle anywhere. The architect doesn't dare look at Connor, but stares transfixed at projection-Arthur's companion. At last the pair turn a corner into a lush green park, but the view isn't what Ariadne's interested in._

_It's Zoe. She just knows._

_She's gorgeous. Her blonde hair catches the light like a halo, and she's also inherited her grandfather's eyes. Her face is alight with mirth and happiness as Zoe and Arthur make their way to a shady spot under a large tree. Their fingers brush just barely as they walk side by side, and Ariadne can't help the stab of sadness, mingled in with envy. She's never seen Arthur smile so brightly. The point man is also casually dressed, but still manages to fill out those jeans and t shirts impeccably._

' _Mr. Perfect' is what Eames would say. Ariadne tears her eyes away from what's obviously a memory, to look up at her captor. She sees sadness there too. Sadness and rage._

" _He loved her. They were hiding it from me, fooling around behind my back. It's_ _ **his fault.**_ _If she hadn't fallen for his charms..." Connor nearly trembles in anger._

" _What do you want from him?" she asks quietly, knowing that yelling will probably just provoke more bodily injury. Her head hurts. Her arms and wrists hurt, and she can't get the image of a bruised and bloodied Arthur to leave her brain._

_**Don't believe him.** _

_Connor doesn't reply, and Ariadne is forced to just continue to watch in silence. Within moments, Zoe's head snaps up, and the architect can feel the sharp intake of breath rush through her lungs as projection-Zoe looks straight at them. This is apparently what Connor's been waiting for. His sister leaves Arthur beneath the tree, making her way over to them with graceful strides. Ariadne's mind flashes back to Mal, and she has to force air in and out in order to retain some semblance of calm._

_Zoe is even more striking up close, but Ariadne is startled to see something in her eyes she hadn't noticed from afar. There's something missing, a spark. This isn't a Zoe from a memory. This Zoe is a cruel fabrication. The architect's heart thunders painfully in her chest as she is instantly thrown back to Cobb's impossible home inside his subconscious, where a different Cobb and a dangerous Mal lay, together unto death._

_She shot Mal. She shot Mal, and she can shoot Zoe, break her hold. Right? Before Ariadne can point out that Arthur won't fall for this, the dreamscape whirls, becoming a blur before their eyes, as if they were moving at hyper speed. It jerks to a stop, and the three of them stand before a disturbingly familiar door. Ariadne swallows thickly. This won't work. Arthur won't fall for this. Not if she can help it._

" _I want him to know what it's like to be haunted."_

**.a.**

_Projections are holding him up. Before Ariadne can open her mouth to tell him, warn him, she's being pulled back, back to the wall. The chains are shorter now. She lurches forward, pulling even though the shooting pain quickly becomes all consuming. Beneath his bruises, Arthur's face drains of colour, and his eyes widen with something she's never seen in him before._

_Fear._

" _Hello, Arthur."_

_Zoe's smile is almost too beautiful. She sidles up close, putting a hand over his heart and resting her head against his shoulder. Ariadne can't unstuck the words in her throat as she sees the agony etched horrifyingly deep into the lines of Arthur's face. His eyes close and his jaw trembles, and when Zoe puts another hand on his cheek, the warning finally comes._

" _She's not real! She's not Zoe! She—_

_Ariadne never gets to explain exactly what this almost-ghost is trying to do, or rather what Connor is getting her to do, because two more of her fingers are now broken and Ariadne is too busy screaming. Doubling over as far as her restraints will allow, the architect can't even stop the stream of tears that course rivers down her cheeks. Connor's voice is livid in her ear._

" _Shut up."_

_Gasping and shaking, Ariadne can't reply. She can't even pull herself away. Arthur's eyes shift in her direction, but the hope that brings her is snuffed out as Zoe moves to block his gaze. "You haven't forgotten me, have you?"_

" _Zoe..." Her heart breaks for him. "Of course not."_

_It's hard to see through the tears that she can't wipe away, thanks to Connor grip on her arms. The architect has to put nearly all of her focus into not having a panic attack, leaving barely enough to pay attention to what's going on in front of her. Her heart lurches against her ribcage and up into her throat with such force it hurts._

" _I've missed you."_

_The point man's struggle is plain on his face. "Don't do this."_

" _You've changed, Arthur. You steal secrets. You've hurt people."_

_Can projections be ghosts? Ariadne's pretty sure that only ghosts can fade into nothing, but somehow the two large, broad-shouldered men constraining Arthur disappear, leaving him no choice but to lean into Zoe who—in the architect's opinion—shouldn't be the most solid in the first place. If anyone should be the ghost in this scenario, it's her. The point man is painstakingly still, his eyes still closed but his face still betrays him._

" _I'm sorry."_

" _I just want to be with you, don't you know that? We could be together, here. You could stay. You could stay with me."_

_Even Ariadne, who's never had someone like the person Arthur had in Zoe, can see the achingly convincing sincerity in Zoe's gaze. Arthur is silent for a long time. Hope flutters more forcefully in the architect's stomach, in spite of the fresh tears that burn in her eyes. She can't even bear to imagine what Arthur feels in this moment. Seconds drag by, and it takes a minute before Ariadne realizes that the projection of Arthur's best friend is about to cry._

" _Don't you love me, Arthur?"_

_She feels sick to her stomach. The architect renews her struggle against Connor, because she can't just stand here and do nothing. It's most likely the mounting fear and panic, but Ariadne's mind suddenly registers...lemon. The smell of lemon, mixed in with a mint. She attributes it half to her horrible state of mind, and half to her brain trying to cope with the pain. Maybe it's the dream again. The smell is invigorating, cleansing, only there for a few seconds before it disappears. Ariadne can feel her wits returning. And then..._

" _I think it's time for you to go, Ari."_

_There goes all her concentration. A somewhat strangled noise claws its way from the architect's throat as her head snaps up. Arthur's eyes are open, but she can't read them. She doesn't understand, and that fear crescendos into something crushing, that panic wreaks havoc on whatever semblance of calm she had left, and before she really knows it Ariadne has ripped herself from Connor's grip, swung her arms up, and smashed her manacled wrists into his face._

_Blood streams from his nose. Shots ring out, deafening, blinding. She thinks she sees a flash of silver—_ _**Arthur is covered in blood—** _ _she can't scream_ _**she can't scream** _ _her vision goes black;_ _**someone's covering her eyes—** _ _cold pressure against her temple— and then a voice._

" _Sorry, Princess."_

_And then darkness._


	17. Chapter Seventeen

She can't breathe.

Ariadne's heart pounds so painfully inside her chest that her vision wavers. There is too much darkness and not enough light, but even that assertion is weak because everything is fuzzy. The only thing she really understands right now is how cold the floor is. The architect jerks, turning over in a panic onto her hands and knees. Her palms sting as they slap onto frigid concrete. She can feel bits of sharp gravel and dirt from their shoes digging into her skin.

At least she is somewhat less vulnerable now.

Nearly heaving with the effort to draw deeper breaths, Ariadne almost doesn't see her totem, fallen from its catch inside her clothes. She nearly drops it once she grasps it again. The 'thunk' is the only really distinct sound amidst laboured breathing. It's only now that Ariadne forces her eyes upwards, further into the centre of the small, dim light.

Arthur and Eames are both on their feet while Connor stands warily between them, glancing periodically at either gun pointed at his chest. The brutes lie apparently unconscious (or dead, but she'd really rather them be unconscious) on the floor. She can't speak. She can't even groan. She just breathes.

"Ariadne." The point man's voice is deadly, frightening even. There is no inflection. He's not even looking at her. "Are you alright."

The architect finally becomes aware of a soft, rasping noise, and realizes that it's her shuddering breath. "Yes," she gets out, and at last her head stops spinning. Eames silently prods Connor into the chair and ties him to it roughly. The arms dealer is glaring venomously, but Ariadne knows the safety of Arthur's gun is already off. He won't hesitate. The forger returns to his former position, and she finds some strength to get to her feet.

A strange, quasi-sense of déjà-vu runs through her as Ariadne finds herself pitching forward, ripping the gun from Eames's grip, and slamming the end into Connor's face. Blow after blow, she breaks his noise, blackens and cuts just above an eye before strong arms lock around her and yank her back. A hand takes the gun. A horrifying sound rips from her throat. Part rage, part sorrow, part indefinable pain, the confinement urges her reaction of flight and Ariadne doesn't resist. She pulls and twists, trying to break free.

Arthur's voice is somehow unintelligible to her ears, but eventually the feeling of his heart—steady and strong through the folds of his shirt—gets her to at least stop fighting him. He pushes her into the elevator, and it's with something like a whimper that Ariadne whips around to face him. To make sure.

She finally realizes his form is blurred by tears.

"Go."

**.a.**

"What's the matter, Arthur?" **  
**

Connor's words are thick and rather garbled from his broken nose and the blood that streams from it. He spits, and what the point man imagines as a disgusting mix of crimson and clear hits the floor with a _squelch_. Arthur can practically see Eames rolling his eyes in distaste.

"Afraid to let her see the kind of person you really are?"

A familiar sound reaches the Arthur's ears: a fist connecting with a chest, and the rough exhale that follows. Has he never mentioned how much he appreciates Eames, as annoying as the Brit can be? Because Arthur really does. Appreciate him.

Neither point man nor forger dignifies this question with a verbal response. Setting his jaw, the former turns back to the light as the latter steps away from a slumping Connor. Arthur hopes Eames broke one of his ribs.

"You are going to leave Paris. You are going to head your company from elsewhere. If we hear even a  _whisper_ that you've come back, we are going to kill you."

"I have people everywhere, Arty."

He's grinning. Arthur wants to punch him. Before he's even finished the thought, Eames obliges with a vicious right hook. Perhaps they've been working together for too long. "So do I."

There is a pause, and a gleam of cruel understanding lights Connor's eyes. "You really are afraid for her, aren't you? Afraid she'll turn into me? Or is it Mal? That  _is_  her name, right? Your precious Dom's dead wife?"

"She could never be you."

"Mal, then." The bound man's smile is twisted and deranged. "Everyone knows their story, Arthur. Is that why you keep her at arm's length? Are you afraid that one day you'll be unable to kill a projection of your darling Ari and endanger everyone on your team? Could you kill her like you killed my sister?"

The point man nearly trembles with the effort to maintain control.

"You know what happened in front of that safe. You were there."

"Why not just kill me now? Save yourself the trouble?" Even though Connor is taunting him, Arthur doubts he realizes how thoughtfully the idea had been considered. "Come on, Arthur. You'd be free, right? No more reminders."

His composure is slipping. Arthur tries only half-heartedly to hold on.

"I will not disgrace her by killing you."

"A little late for that, don't you think?" The words are followed with a sneer, and a laugh that is cold and humourless. "Does your precious architect really understand what happened all those years ago?" The contempt slides away, only to be replaced with dead and haunted eyes. "Or did you just gloss over how much she loved you?"

It takes everything Arthur has to speak without feeling.

"Zoe didn't love me."

" _Shut up!"_ Connor lurches against his bindings, looking now crazed and wild in his anger. The flip is instantaneous and terrifying. "Don't you  _dare_  say her name you son of a bitch!"

The point man's chest constricts; his heartbeat reduced to something seemingly faint and far away. Yet, his hand remains steady. "I made peace with Zoe a long time ago. Maybe it's time you did too."

Connor struggles so wildly that the chair tips sideways in what feels like comic slow motion. Somehow managing to not smash his head against the floor, the closest thing Arthur's ever had to a brother continues to scream. Suddenly overcome with weariness, Arthur stands motionless, feeling his strength ebb away like the steady trickle of falling sand. Eames grips his gun a little tighter as the point man stows his and pulls the chair back up.

Arthur refuses to pity him. He looks down at a man he recognizes no longer, realizing in this moment that they are, in fact, truly and forever broken. They will never be fixed.

**.a.**

By the time she finds her way back to somewhere remotely familiar, the sun has risen. The glare is painfully bright in Ariadne's aching eyes as she tries her hardest not to stumble—or worse, pass out in a crowd of poor, unsuspecting crowd of passerbys.

The now phantom weight of Eames's gun is heavy in her hand. Ariadne tries to focus solely on putting one foot in front of the other as her apartment building comes into view. The architect hasn't caught even a glimpse of Kira, Saito, or any men Saito may have brought with him. The fact fills her with equal parts reassurance and fear. On one hand, Kira could have been whisked safely to Japan without a backwards glance. Other the other, he could not have made it at all.

There was no way of knowing who Connor may have had waiting in the darkness. Ariadne wonders grimly how long it will be before she knows which is true. That is, is she ever knows. She wouldn't put it past Saito to cut off all contact, nor would she begrudge him (or Kira) for it. Despite all these (dark) inner musings, the last concrete thought Ariadne has upon reaching the Scotts' front door is that she should have taken the car.

**.a.**

All Eames says in the elevator is "You owe me a lemon," for which Arthur is grateful. His die is clutched so tightly in his fist that the point man can feel his fingernails digging into his palm all the way to the car. They left Connor in the basement without another word, blissfully free to ignore the arms dealer's sudden stony silence. Eventually his thugs will regain consciousness, and eventually they can go back to being only memories in each other's lives. This of course is wishful thinking on Arthur's part, but one can only hope, right?

In any case, he and Ariadne will be taking a very long vacation away from Paris when all this is over. Speaking of his architect...Eames doesn't comment as Arthur leans a little harder on the gas. "You'd better not be thinking of doing the right thing and disappearing on her, mate."

Silence. The forger sighs, leaning his elbow against the window and propping his chin up with the same hand. He stares out the glass as if able to see every detail of the street whipping past. Arthur's knuckles are white, his jaw tight like an archer's drawn bowstring.

"You know how long the pain lasts."

**.a.**

"Ariadne?"

It's Brielle who answers her tried-not-to-be-so-frantic knocking. Will's wife is still dressed for sleep, a pale, thin blue robe folded around her. She peers at the architect, who can nothing right now other than keep trying to catch her breath. "Are you alright?"

Ariadne just shakes her head, mind still whirring too quickly for proper words. Brielle studies her young neighbour for another moment. In the brief following silence, Ariadne tries to figure out if the dawning look in her eyes is sympathy...or knowing. "Come on inside okay? We can keep each other company until one of the boys shows up."

Grateful at the lack of questions thus far, the architect doesn't hesitate in following Brielle inside. "Will gone to work?" she asks, even though she knows what the answer is supposed to be. Upon reaching the kitchen, Brielle points wordlessly at the kettle, and Ariadne nods with a faint smile.

"He got called in unexpectedly, actually. He'd gotten a day off work to just get everything settled for sure, but Mitchell phoned this morning."

The architect fights the urge to bite her lip in nervous habit. Could it really be just a coincidence? Will being here was the whole point, after all. Forcing a deep breath, Ariadne jerks her mind back from dangerous places. She's fine. He's fine. He'll be home any minute now.

"Do you want to talk about what happened?" Brielle sets two mugs of green tea on the small dining table for two.

Ariadne exhales slowly, staring down at the curling steam. "He wanted to get up early to watch the sunrise," she decides finally, grasping at the lies as they come. "We were on our way when this strange guy comes up to us. He said he was an old friend of Arthur's. Arthur got really tense and said he'd meet me back here, but..." She lifts her eyes to Brielle's. "I just got a bad feeling."

The idea of being able to lie without so much as a stutter is perhaps even more concerning than Arthur's whereabouts. Although, Ariadne admits, it's not so much a lie as it is a skewing of the truth. It's probably just trying to make herself feel better.

"That man," says Brielle at last, that almost-knowing returning, "Did he tell you his name?" A pause, in which Ariadne's stomach turns without her really understanding why.

"Did his name happen to be Connor Black?"

**.a.**

What comes to mind isn't exactly an appropriate thought. And then nothing at all beside a chilling sort of blankness.

"How did you...?"

Was it being naive? To hope for once that in this twisted, frightening, joyous thing that now her life there is someone  _normal?_ Ariadne wants to bang her forehead on the table and pray for some sense to come spilling out. Instead she swallows the knot of fear that's lodged itself in her throat as she waits for Brielle to explain just exactly how her world has been turned around yet again.

"It was...three years ago?" Brielle purses her lips, rolling her eyes upwards and holding up three slender fingers before slowly following with a fourth. "Or four. Three or four. Will had just recently been promoted to Mitchell's personal detail, and he'd forgotten his lunch. I thought I'd bring it to him, tell him to breathe, you know? He was so nervous." The red head smiles in obvious affection. "The elevator doors had just opened, and I'd turned towards Mitchell's office when I heard it. The yelling."

"Connor was there?" Call it an educated guess.

"He was just standing in Mitchell's office, screaming and pacing. He sounded...he sounded crazy. He kept going on about how Mitchell had betrayed him, how his own grandfather had loved a stranger more than his own flesh and blood. About how this Arthur had taken everything from him, everything he'd worked for...everything he'd loved. And about someone named Zoe, and how Arthur had destroyed her."

Ariadne's stomach turns again. She grips the handle of her mug a little tighter. It takes all her focus to not allow her hands to shake, for her lips not to tremble and for everything not to come tumbling out. She wants to speak so badly. She wants someone to know what this pain is like, this pain of knowing a deep and terrible secret that you can't tell a single soul, in words you can't express because it would mean destroying the one person who truly understands.

"Mitchell tried to calm him down, but it didn't work. Connor just stormed out. He walked right past me. He probably thought I worked there."

She just nods. It makes twisted, morbid sense. It always does, doesn't it?

"And now he's after Arthur." The words come out with a tired hollowness. Ariadne is tired of running. Twisting her lips in sympathy, Brielle reaches across the tiny table to cover the architect's hand with hers.

"I'm sure Arthur will be fine. You don't think he's in real danger do you?"

Ariadne has to force herself to shake her head. "I just want him home."

Brielle nods silently, and for a long time neither of them say anything more. The pair locks eyes, and for the longest of moments  _understanding_ passes between them in waves. Brielle knows, like Ariadne does, what it feels like to have someone walk out a door and have to pray that they come back.

Arthur has told her the story; the story of the one and only attempt on Mitchell Black's life. Of course, there hadn't been even a whisper of news throughout the general population—Black Industries were good like that. They still are. The car that saved Mitchell's life had been rid of its scratch and dent marks within a day, and William Scott's bullet scar is always hidden underneath a shirt—only his wife has ever seen it.

They never caught the would-be assassin.

"It's right here."

Brielle takes one hand and pulls up her sleeve to reveal the top of her shoulder, pressing her finger against the bone—parallel to her collarbone. High up, easily covered. "Nearly a perfect circle. We told people the sling was for his arm, that he'd fractured it falling down the stairs."

The architect swallows. "Were you scared?" Her voice cracks.

Brielle nods, her mouth set in a determined line. "I was. But he was doing his job, and that's all there is to it. After that, Will's never left Mitchell's side."

It explains a lot. The quiet settles around them in ribbons; slowly, delicately, carefully. Ariadne wraps her hands around her mug, drinking slowly. Will's wife offers no other words of solace or comfort, and for that the architect is unusually grateful.

Twenty minutes later there's knocking on the door.

**.a.**

It takes all her self-control to not throw herself at him.

"Ari."

He smiles—quietly, softly, a little half heartedly. He's too perfect still. It's almost heartbreaking.

"Are you...?"

She can't bring herself to ask the question. Or rather, she doesn't know what the question is. Arthur's smile tightens almost imperceptibly. "Ready to go?"

"Uh, yeah." Ariadne looks back at Brielle, lifting a hand in a feeble attempt at a wave. Brielle smiles too—quietly, softly, a little half heartedly—and says "See you later."

The architect isn't reassured by his presence. Not enough, anyway. She's still scared and worried and confused, all until the door of her apartment closes behind them and Arthur's thumb slides across her pulse point. Ariadne doesn't need any more indication. She drops Arthur's hand and throws her arms around his neck. To his credit, the point man catches her without hesitation and his back thuds against the wall. His grip is so tight it's painful.

But it's a good pain.

"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry."

The words of pain and apology are murmured into her neck; Arthur's lips brushing her skin and making her shiver. Ariadne's eyes burn with hot tears. It's a long time few seconds before she can find her voice.

"It's okay. I'm okay."

"I couldn't do it." Arthur pulls away and her eyes zero in on his face. His eyes are wide; wild and dark and frightening. "I couldn't do it, Ari. I couldn't kill him. I just—"

"Hey." Her heart lurches up inside her throat as she pulls him into her arms again, threading her fingers through his surprisingly soft, dark hair. "Hey, it's okay. Shh, it's okay."

He's muttering unintelligible things, things like  _Zoe_ and  _sorry_ and  _safe._ Truly frightened now, Ariadne just holds him tighter, whispering into his ear because anything louder will betray how crumbling her composure really is. "I'm safe. I'm safe, Arthur. You're safe. Eames is safe. Yusuf, Kira, Saito. Because of you they're all safe. It's okay. We're okay. We can—we can leave." She's really getting desperate now. "We can leave and not come back if that will keep us safe."

Arthur laughs. The sound is hollow, broken, and hoarse; a single syllable of exhaled air. Ariadne can't take it anymore. She breaks away; holding Arthur's beautiful face in her hands and pleads with shining eyes.

"Arthur,  _please_. Tell me how to make it okay."

For what feels like a long time they're frozen in this position of locked eyes and broken hearts. And then Arthur's lips descend on hers and Ariadne is pulled forcibly back to the early dawning morning. She can't help but notice that this kiss tastes exactly the same.

Their lips and bodies are moving and her back is colliding with the wall—her door—and somehow she gets it open and they tumble inside. Her scarf flutters to the floor and her jacket follows. She's tugging on his tie with shaking hands and trying to figure out what this roaring warmth is in the depth of her stomach—Arthur's hands roam her back and tangle in her hair and something that sounds like a sigh escapes her lips.

"Wait, wait."

His voice is deep, husky, breathless. Her heart thuds unevenly. Her eyes refocus slowly, and Ariadne is startled to realize that Arthur's vest and tie have disappeared. His collar is crooked and two buttons are undone. She's down to her t shirt and jeans. Her hands are still shaking. Arthur's eyes are endlessly dark— _desire;_ she can see it now—as he tilts her face up to meet his.

"Are you sure?"

For once, he sounds as vulnerable and afraid as she feels. Ariadne swallows, attempting to right the world's spinning for a moment as she really thinks. Yes, yes,  _yes._ She nods, slowly, certainly, opens her mouth to say the words—

"Ariadne! Arthur!"

Brielle's voice; high pitched and thin, followed by a barrage of pounding on the door. Ariadne's heart constricts both in fear and startling disappointment all at once. Arthur is already buttoning his shirt and leaving the room. His forehead is furrowed and his mouth set. His hand hovers over his gun. They open the door to reveal Brielle, holding a cell phone in one hand. Her face is chalk white. Ariadne's heart drops.

"It's Alice. She's in the hospital."


	18. Chapter Eighteen

"Hey."

She feels compelled to say something. Ariadne stops walking, letting Arthur's momentum tug her arm in protest. He looks back in question, a storm brewing in steady fury behind a mask of ever present composure. The muscle in his jaw twitches, and as much as she knows he just wants to pull her through the waiting room doors beyond, Arthur turns his body to fully face hers. Ariadne squeezes his hand, gripping tightly in a way she can only hope is reassuring.

"I'm here if you need me, okay?"

The pause feels eternal even though it's really only a few breaths long. Instead of speaking, Arthur uses the ready connection between them to pull the architect closer, folding his arms around her. Unresisting, Ariadne can feel his nose pressing against her shoulder as she attempts to alleviate some of the burden she knows weighs him down so deeply.

"Thank you."

She doesn't say anything else, just takes his hand again and leads him through the wide double doors. With the way the waiting room looks—men in dark suits everywhere—Ariadne finds herself wondering if the Prime Minister had been admitted. And the she remembers who Alice really is. Arthur's hand convulses in hers. His right hand, she registers suddenly, too late. Her thoughts fly immediately to the gun, hidden away on his person as it always is.

The architect chances a look at the point man, whose jaw is working like a tiny Olympic sprinter. He drops her hand before she can even tighten her hold in warning. Ariadne's gaze darts anxiously from Arthur's already wandering hand to the plethora of sharp eyes suddenly upon them. The man closest—literally within arm's reach—starts with awing speed. Ariadne opens her mouth—

"Arthur!"

She really has a bad track record for being interrupted today. This time however, the architect is grateful to her interrupter. Will takes long, purposeful strides towards them, while the man from seconds before slides back to his former position without so much as a grunt. Arthur and Will clasp hands, while Ariadne settles for lifting her own in greeting. There is a beat of silence before she asks the only question that really matters right now.

"What happened?"

Arthur's eyes find hers for the briefest of instances, and the architect is somewhat startled at the gratitude she finds there. Will's expression is grim.

"Alice had a heart attack."

**.a.**

There is exactly seven heartbeats worth of stunned, horrified silence. Ariadne's eyes fill with tears. She can feel her knees buckling and it's only a last-ditch vice grip on Arthur's waiting hand that saves her from hitting the floor. Her grip is so tight it must be hurting, but the feeling is mutual.

"Is she...? I mean—"

"She's in surgery." Arthur's hand tightens around hers, if there's even any air left between their fingers to break through.

"And Mitchell?" The worry is barely contained in the point man's voice. Ariadne swallows, trying to keep air circulating. Her head is spinning.

"Watching."

"Are you sure that's—"

Arthur breaks off, catching the look in Will's eyes that says ' _Could you have stopped him?'_

"Can we see him?"

A beat. Will nods brusquely, snapping back into that always-in-control Ace of Mitchell's security detail. The switch is so quick that Ariadne hadn't even noticed the change, but in retrospect she can see it. The flatness of his eyes that keeps the waves of everything from breaking forth; that keeps him in control. Will spins on his heel and moves across the room in that elegant, long gait of his. He doesn't look back to see if they follow.

**.a.**

"Mitchell..."

Arthur lays a hand on his mentor's shoulder, who doesn't even start at the sudden contact. Through the glass of the observation room Alice is visible on the operating table below. Half a dozen people stand around her motionless form, and from underneath a surgeon's arm Ariadne spies a wash of crimson. The architect can feel the blood rushing from her face, and leans into Arthur's side for support. It's hard to breathe again.

"We disagreed about Sarah's gift." Mitchell's voice is hoarse and quiet. Ariadne's chest hurts. "I said we should get her something practical, for her future. She's our first great grandchild. Alice wanted to get her a singing stuffed bear. It was the last conversation we had this morning."

"Alice is going to be fine."

There it is again: that conviction that had so forcefully swayed Ariadne's fears inside the walls of her room. Arthur takes a seat on Mitchell's right and Ariadne his left. She takes Mitchell's hand in both her own, feeling the smoothness of his ring against her palm. Rebellious tears slide past her nose. Will, standing stock still next to the observation room door, reaches into his pocket and pulls out what looks suspiciously like a handkerchief. He hands it to the architect silently, who accepts with a grateful, weak smile.

It's a silk handkerchief.

They wait in sombre, overwhelming silence.

Hours pass. And still they wait.

**.a.**

Alice flat-lines once.

Ariadne honestly can't remember many details. All she remembers is Arthur's hand, white knuckled in hers as they watch Mitchell, standing against the glass so close that his nose is practically touching it. She remembers the sound of that high-pitched whine that haunts her dreams for days afterwards. She remembers the sight of all that blood.

Finally, finally: "She's back." A voice, over a loud speaker in the room's ceiling. "We got her back, Mr. Black. We're almost done. It'll be over soon."

Ariadne remembers her own choking sob, the tears of relief that slid down every face in the room, and she doesn't remember much after that.

**.a.**

"There was a...complication, as you all know. As a result, Alice lost a lot of the oxygen that should have made it to her brain. She'll be unconscious for several days at least."

"When will she wake up?"

Mitchell's composure is rock solid. It's actually quite incredible. Ariadne is still trying to catch her breath. Arthur's hand rubs comforting circles on the small of her back. She feels dizzy.

"It's hard to know. It could be a few days, or a few weeks. We're monitoring her very closely, so you don't need to worry about that at the very least. The best thing to do now is probably to go home and get some sleep."

"I'd like to see her, please."

Alice's doctor doesn't even appear phased at this blatant ignoring of his advice. Ariadne figures he gets it a lot. "Right this way, sir. Although you'll be the only one allowed in the room. Only one person at a time."

"William?" Mitchell is already several steps ahead.

"Yes sir?" Will stands up a few centimetres straighter, if it were possible to catch with the naked eye.

"You should call Brielle. I'm sure she's worried about you." There is a sort of dulling quality to Mitchell's voice now, soft and tinny, and Ariadne can't place it.

"We can let her know," says Arthur smoothly, and Will's mouth closes. They all know the protest that had been so ready to come out. Will never leaves his boss.

"Thank you Arthur," is what Brielle's husband says instead of his objection.

"You'll call us if anything changes?"

"Of course."

Tiredness. It's what had laced Mitchell's voice only moments ago. It's in everyone's voices now. And then they're off. Mitchell and Will follow the doctor down the corridor, Ariadne watching their progress with aching eyes as they turn a corner and disappear. She doesn't even realize she's crying again until Arthur's arms wind around her and tears begin to stain his dress shirt.

"C'mon Ari," he murmurs into her hair. "We'll come back in a little while."

She's too overcome do to anything but let Arthur lead her out of the hospital. The journey home is spent in silence. Arthur's left hand rests on the steering wheel as his right hand holds Ariadne's over the console. He draws his thumb back and forth over her wrist in a gentle, soothing rhythm as she leans her forehead tiredly against the glass and stares out with dazed, unseeing eyes. The past few hours come rushing back so quickly she's almost light-headed by the time they reach the apartment.

"I'll tell Bri," Arthur says finally, handing Ariadne a new key. "Get some sleep, okay?"

She just nods mutely. Ariadne half-stumbles into the apartment, kicking her shoes off haphazardly and falling inelegantly into bed. She shrugs out of her sweater and tugs her scarf from her neck. Her mind is sort of blissfully blank; she doesn't even want to consider what almost happened just a few hours ago. Ariadne crawls underneath her covers and closes her eyes, but the part of her brain registered to Arthur refuses to quiet.

She's not sure how long she lies there—body exhausted, mind still adamant—but at some point Ariadne hears the door open. She hears a soft sigh and the ever-steady sound of his footfalls that get louder and louder as they approach her ( _their?)_  room. (Yet another thing she refuses to think about right now.) There is the sound of the door swinging open, barely there but still. When Arthur is finally at her side again, folded around her like the comfort of a nostalgic dream, that part of Ariadne's brain relents at last and she's able to sleep.

**.a.**

" _What did you extract?"_

_The gunshot is deafening. Her visions swims crimson._

" _I think you're lying."_

_Zoe..._

" _Don't you love me?"_

_She's screaming. Screaming so loud, but even as her throat burns no sound comes out..._

" _How's your precious architect with pain?"_

" _You've hurt people..."_

" _I bet you have a scar."_

_Where's Arthur? Zoe? Ariadne whips her head to either side, craning her neck, eyes darting frantically, but there's nothing; nothing but grey and shadow and cold...and the glint of a knife...A beeping; rising until it's shrill and painfully fast—painful like her heart that slams inside her throat._

" _ **Don't believe him**_ _."_

" _What it's like to be haunted..."_

" _I bet you have a scar."_

_Her shoulders pop. Little bones snap. The pain is dizzying but the fear keeps that glinting metal clear. Connor's wicked grin becomes Mal's, then Zoe's. The knife breaks her skin—white hot—and then it all disappears, leaving Arthur illuminated by a mysterious light in the darkness. Zoe stands just behind him at his shoulder, her silhouette bathed in shadow but Ariadne can still make out the bright, captivating colour of her eyes...and the triumphant, cruel smile playing at her lips._

_She still can't speak._

" _I think it's time for you to go, Ari."_

_And then the high pitched sound of a heart monitor flat-lining. Arthur and Zoe begin to recede into the dark. Ariadne pulls until both her wrists dangle useless and unnatural, until her voice finally returns and she can call out._

_But they're already gone._

"Ari! Wake up! Ari!"

Hands, pinning her down, forcing her still. Ariadne lashes out, screaming and crying and choking. " _Arthur! You promised! You_ _ **promised**_ _!"_

"I'm right here. Wake up. Come on, Ariadne. Wake up."

She's being shaken and finally,  _finally,_ jerks awake, eyes unseeing and lungs not breathing until a blissfully familiar face blurs into view and some oxygen finds its way to where it needs to go. Arthur clutches her wrists, his eyes roving over Ariadne's face and unmistakable worry etched in his gaze. She still can't breathe properly, not really understanding she's still crying until Arthur's fingers trace the flood of tears still streaming down her cheeks.

"Hey," he says, so softly Ariadne almost doesn't hear it. "Welcome back."

A strangled, weak sob escapes her lips as the architect lurches up and into Arthur, who folds his arms around her without hesitating. It's only upon pressing her nose into his shoulder and inhaling the smell of clean soap that Ariadne realizes that Arthur isn't wearing the soft cotton dress shirt she'd last seen him in. In fact, Arthur isn't wearing anything.

Except a towel, that is.

"Oh my god." Ariadne jerks away, staring with wide eyes. Arthur's hair is damp and falling over his forehead. It might just be the sexiest thing she's ever seen. The thought stains her cheeks, colouring even deeper when her gaze wanders towards the point man's exposed chest and midsection, but they return to pale upon the realization that her eye hurts. Ariadne raises a trembling hand to her face, hissing at the tenderness of the skin around her left eye. At least she can see right?

The point man's cheeks are pink.

"Here."

She almost laughs at the sight of the bag of frozen peas Arthur holds out to her. She flinches at the cold against her face, but relaxes. Arthur studies her carefully.

"I'm sorry," he says."You should've had ice on that a long time ago."

"I didn't even notice it," Ariadne replies honestly. "Really. I'm surprised no one else said anything."

"Do you have a headache?"

She nods slowly. "It's from the crying." The shame of admitting it pales next to the idea he's considering. But she doesn't think she has a concussion. Connor never hit hard enough to knock her out. Not even in the dream. The architect moves to rise, intent on water, only to realize that Arthur's already holding a glass out. There are two aspirin pills in his other hand.

"Thank you."

They sit in silence as Ariadne takes careful, slow sips. She swallows the aspirin one at a time, wincing as they scratch against the back of her throat. The girl forces her eyes back to Arthur's, if only to avoid looking anywhere else. "Arthur?" His head tilts questioningly. "Do you think you could um..." She makes a vague, fluttering sort of motion with one hand, blushing to the roots of her hair.

The point man's forehead creases for the briefest of instances, before he rises with that almost infuriating grace (still accomplished in a  _towel_ ) and steps away from her. From where she's sitting, Ariadne can see the colour rising up his neck and tinting the tips of his ears. It's adorable. He's still blushing when he turns back to face her.

"I'm just going to..." Arthur makes a similar vague sort of motion out the door while the architect tries to hold in her giggles.

"Right. Me too."

He clears his throat somewhat awkwardly, despite the way Arthur and the concept of awkwardness never seemed to mesh. Ariadne drops her gaze to her fingers on the bedspread in a fit of renewed embarrassment. By the time she looks up again he is gone. The architect takes a few deep breaths before heading to the shower and jumping straight in. Ariadne lets cold water blast her skin in an attempt to shock this new found image of Arthur out of her system.

It doesn't work—her thoughts wander and find the image of ties and scarves strewn on the floor—and after a minute she can't take it any more. She cranks the water as hot as it will go to try and scrub away the day; the metallic smell of blood and chains, Connor's voice inside her ear, the phantom pain of her fingers, and the dirt and dust of cold grey floors. When Ariadne steps out in a haze of steam, her headache is less—although if she dwells too much it's almost as though her screams are echoing over her bathroom tiles.

She tugs on her favourite university sweats and a comfortable t shirt and makes her way into the living room, deciding that vegging out on the couch is a completely suitable use of her time until she falls asleep again. Arthur apparently has the the same idea. The point man in sweat pants brings a smile to Ariadne's face. The motion is so unused as of late that even the faint twitch of her lips feels like it's cracking a mask.

"You know," says Arthur casually as the architect takes her place beside him on the couch, putting her feet on his lap without preamble. "I've never seen this."

He's holding her well-loved DVD of Disney's  _Tarzan_ that even has a french version—complete with translated musical numbers. Ariadne is torn between laughing and gasping in horror.

"You've never seen  _Tarzan?_ What is wrong with you?"

Arthur shrugs, his expression bemused. "No time like the present?" he offers, probably in the hopes of deterring the architect's incoming Disney-love-fuelled wrath. Ariadne fixes him with disbelieving stare before rolling her eyes and snatching the DVD case from his grip. His chuckle is warm as she swings herself onto her feet and pops the movie in. She feels eleven years old again; seeing the movie for the first time with wide eyes and forgetting all about the popcorn sitting in her lap at the theatre.

Ariadne tries to tell herself that this isn't a distraction, but it is and they both know it. Although once she's accepted this, it gets easier to just watch and not think. She jumps at the leopard leaping through the bridge like always, and Arthur's silent laughter shakes his shoulders. The architect mouths the words and lyrics, and every so often she glances over at Arthur, who stares at the screen with the same intensity as he does everything.

The bright colours flicker across the darkness of his eyes, and she might just be imagining his content expression, but decides it's really there anyway. They watch the whole movie in silence.

"Arthur?" she murmurs sometime later. The credits are rolling and she's turned herself around so her head rests in his lap. His fingers are running a soothing rhythm through her hair. It's making her sleepy.

"Hmm?"

"We'll visit Alice soon right? Like tomorrow?"

Arthur's thumb, tracing the curve of her ear, pauses, but Ariadne is too drowsy to really notice.

"Yeah. Tomorrow."


	19. Chapter Nineteen

They go to visit Alice the next morning. And the next. And the next after that. Every morning Ariadne wakes up to darkness and a cold sheen on her forehead, but she always wakes up to Arthur; as real and as solid as the moment they'd first met. He runs his thumb over her wrist and presses his lips into her hairline or temple, rubbing her back with his free hand.

"You're okay," he murmurs as she tries to breathe. "It's okay. You're okay."

And Ariadne is surprisingly alright after that. They don't talk about  _maybes_ and  _what ifs,_ even though the possible outcome of that bedroom scene not so long (a lifetime) ago crosses her mind nearly as much as the recurring nightmares. For a while it feels like too much—cold knives and malicious smiles, white walls, endless beeping—and this nervous, almost constant fluttering in her stomach.

And then after a while the fluttering becomes that pain that's been holding her down for days now.  _Alice._

Three days turns into a week.  _(no change)_ One week becomes two _(no change)_ and then two becomes three _(no change)._ As the days go by Mitchell's eyes dull and the lines of his face deepen, until one day Mitchell Black looks every bit his waning age.

"No change."

At one point Ariadne convinces him to accompany her for some real coffee, and not the awful tar-tasting stuff they try to pass off as drinkable here in the hospital. With actual coffee (black, two sugars) and real food (chicken club sandwich), the CEO of Black Industries looks considerably (thankfully) more positive. Alice's single room features a large observational window with a crystal clear view of her prone (frighteningly) still form.

Arthur, seated next to her with one hand in his gentle grip makes Ariadne's chest hurt. The sadness and pain in his gaze causes a film of tears to burn in her eyes. The point man looks horribly defeated, which in turn reflects stricken in the architect as she looks in on the scene.

"It's going to be alright, Ariadne."

For a moment she thinks she feels her neck crack as the young woman swings to stare up at the man beside her. Mitchell's reflection is faintly visible in the glass; nothing but rigid lines and a blue, tempered storm staring back. It's a familiar face—it only takes a moment for the realization to hit and for Ariadne's stomach to plummet.

She never realized how alike mentor and pupil really are.

**.a.**

It's getting harder and harder to stay positive.

When the wait is pushing a month, Ariadne returns home from class to find Arthur on the couch, staring into the fire with glassy eyes. A bottle of scotch (does she have scotch?) and a glass sit on the coffee table in front of him; the former half empty and the latter half-full. Swallowing a paralysing panic, the architect wordlessly clears the drink away and receives no protest.

In the kitchen she resists the sudden desire to have some herself, shaking her head and dumping the glass's contents into the sink before finding a cabinet for the bottle. Arthur is exactly how she found him—unnervingly still. Ariadne doesn't have words to make things better. The knowledge that she probably never will tastes acrid on the back of her tongue. So instead of trying and failing to speak, she sits down.

Ariadne takes a seat beside Arthur, stretching to place her feet on the other side of his lap. She leans in close, tucking her head into the favourite spot underneath the point man's chin and forces down the shudder that would betray her nerves. To her relief, Arthur accepts the loose embrace. He wraps an arm around her waist and tugs her gently closer. His lips brush just so against the top of her head; so light it may as well have been the beat of butterfly wings, or the phantom lingering of a beautiful (rare, fragile) dream.

She watches the flickering flames and tries to put her mind at ease, but it's a while still before Ariadne can breathe without it hurting somewhere deeper than her chest. Arthur doesn't say anything for a long time, but when he finally does, something stirs in Ariadne. Something she hasn't felt in a long time: a strange mixture of fear, anticipation, and dread.

"I have an idea."

**.a.**

"I have to do this."

The word 'why' is dangling from her lips, as though it's clinging to a cliff side yet slipping, inch by inch, moment by moment. At the last second she resolves not to ask (it's the only idea they've got, really) but Arthur beats her to it, because he knows. He always knows.

"I can't sit and watch him die at her bedside anymore."

He's not looking at her, but instead into the fire, so Ariadne has to reach up and turn his face to meet hers.

"Are you sure this is a good idea?"

"Not at all."

It sounds like fear in his voice. It scares her beyond measure.

"And there's no guarantee it'll work."

"Not one."

A breath. Just one.

"Okay."

**.a.**

"So let me get this straight. You want to hook my wife up to a PASIV with you, enter what you think will be her dream and kill her into consciousness?"

When Mitchell says it, it sounds even more foolish and risky than Ariadne had originally thought. The man decades older and wiser looks from point man to architect, staring at her as if to ask what had happened to the girl who'd so nervously entered his office all those weeks ago. To be honest, Ariadne wonders that frequently. But she promised allegiance to Arthur (as if they're some medieval force) and she refuses to let that faith waver now.

For his part, Arthur looks as resolute and assured as he ever was. "Her brain and heart activity are perfectly normal, in spite of the small amount of damage." he says, more to make his point than to reiterate common knowledge. "There's no reason why Alice shouldn't wake, but she hasn't. If I go down and can't find her, then I'll come back up and never suggest it again. Plus, it will be my dream. I'll have control. What do we have to lose?"

"How can you be sure that the drug used to induce dream-sharing won't counteract the drugs she's on? What if she isn't dreaming with you and you become trapped in her mind?"

Mitchell is challenging his once-upon-a-time student with equal parts anger, desperation, and hope lining his voice. Ariadne has to swallow the lump in her throat and reply, if only to show him this isn't just a desolate, heartbroken moment of crazed ideas. She wants this too.

"We know a chemist." Her heart constricts and it takes effort and energy (more than she thought she had) for her voice to remain level. "He can ensure no side effects. His sedative can ensure a kick will always work, too."

The man's eyes wander from boy to girl (because what else could they really be to him?) probing, longing, peering as though into their very souls until Ariadne is left feeling exposed and vulnerable.

"Please." Her voice cracks. "Let us try this."

No one speaks for a long time. All around them, the world continues to turn, Alice's heart continues (thank God) to beat, and lifetimes begin and end. Ariadne can feel her strength waning, but short of breaking down into hysterics there is little more she or Arthur can do to further convince Mitchell. And so they wait.

"Alright," comes the weary acceptance. His voice cracks too. "Alright. You get one chance Arthur, and no more. The idea of losing you too...please don't make an old man suffer more heartbreak."

Arthur reaches out and pulls his mentor into a tight hug. "Thank you," he says softly, but the tremor is still just faintly audible. Ariadne knows he's crying and tries to turn away, unable to face this idea that what she'd thought was infallible (calm, strength, composure) in this man she—in  _Arthur_ is just as fragile as she is. In the end it doesn't matter, because the architect is also crying, so earnestly that everything becomes nothing and his tears become her own, falling over and over again.

At some point she's slumped into a chair, overcome into a blissful kind of numbness. Ariadne has neither the energy nor the desire to clear her face, so she just sits. Arthur's hand finds hers—his thumb her pulse point. For a moment she pretends they're dreaming—sitting in a park, or lying in the grass during the depths of night so they can see the stars. But only for a moment. After that one (peaceful, beautiful) breath, Ariadne reaches for her phone. She should have deleted the number a long time ago, but there's really no point.

She's already memorized it.

"We need you."

**.a.**

It takes a surprisingly little amount of convincing to keep Mitchell away nearly three days later. He, like everyone assembled inside Alice's hospital room, knows how dangerous

being caught for him (and all of them, for that matter). Yusuf shakes the elder man's hand, his face grave. He touched down six hours ago, and Ariadne can't be more grateful.

"She'll be alright. I swear it."

If it's possible, the ageing lines around Mitchell's mouth deepen even further. He redirects his gaze to Arthur, who stands with Ariadne at the foot of the bed. "I trust you."

Alice's husband leaves the room then, although the overwhelming tension still lingers. Moments later, Eames's head appears in the doorway, sparing any awkward attempts at conversation. The architect can't remember telling him to come. Such is the relief in seeing him again that Ariadne doesn't mention that he left Paris without saying goodbye. She's moving before remembering telling her legs to go, and crashing into Eames before telling them to stop.

"Darling." The low, familiar hum of his voice nearly causes her knees to give out. His chin presses comfortingly against the top of her head. "How's my favourite architect?"

She doesn't have words at the moment, so Ariadne settles for a small, tired noise against his chest. Eames's fingers trail up and down her spine once, twice, before he squeezes tight and releases her. Ariadne's head spins a little from lack of sleep and general chaos. Eames reaches to accept Arthur's waiting hand, not commenting on the unusual quality of the gesture. The forger then claps Yusuf hard on the back in way greeting. The chemist winces, and for the first time in weeks Ariadne has to suppress the sudden urge to laugh.

A pause. Within moments that (almost) almost laughter is gone. When Ariadne looks back at Arthur, the PASIV has materialized out of nowhere, Eames is pulling a chair to rest beside the doorway, and Yusuf has almost cleared the room. For the briefest of seconds she is struck with a panic of ingratitude, before it is expelled with a "Wait!"

All three men freeze. Before her blush can completely overtake her cheeks, the architect reaches into her pocket and pulls out her keys. "Here," she says tossing them to Yusuf. "The least we can do is put you up for the night. You remember the address?"

He nods, smiling in the slightest of ways. "Thank you, my dear." With a nod and the customary "Good luck," the chemist is gone. In that graceful silence they know so well, Arthur reaches out and his fingers press familiarly against the small of her back. Ariadne tries to smile, but it's a brittle, fragile thing. Eames (thankfully) doesn't say a word, in spite of the way his smirk speaks volumes. Regardless of what the forger thinks, Ariadne leans over and takes Arthur's hand. He squeezes.

"Pass me an IV."

**.a.**

" _I'm going with you."_

_He's opening his mouth to object. She knows it before it even happens. Arthur really needs to work on that jaw of his._

" _There's no time to argue about this," she says, rushing on before he can look at her_ _ **like that**_ _and freeze the words inside her throat. "Yusuf will be here in hours. I'm going. You need me. I won't let you go alone."_

_A breath. Just one._

" _Okay."_

**.a.**

They're sitting slumped against each other—her head on his shoulder, his cheek against her hair. They're still holding hands. Even in sleep it's as though he's watching over her. Eames leans back in his uncomfortable hospital chair, gazing thoughtfully.

"Not bad, Arthur," comes the quiet murmur, more to himself than anyone else. "Not bad."

The forger settles in to wait. They'll only be ten minutes.

"It's about damn time."

**.a.**

_It's a cliff, bright with lush grass and beautiful flowers and a waterfall. It is so unlike Arthur that Ariadne has to take a moment to grasp her totem. For a second she misses hotels. His hand finds hers again, more habit now probably than anything else, but still, after all this time, it makes her heart beat a little faster. It's bright here, so she has to squint a bit to take in the details. A breeze lifts her hair from her neck as she watches projection couples take in the setting sun._

_The strangeness of Arthur's dream almost causes Ariadne to not notice the bench and the familiar figure seated there._

_Alice._

_She wants to run, but Arthur's grip on her hand keeps her steady. The architect swallows a knot of apprehension and forces herself to match Arthur's pace. They reach the bench within moments, but it feels like forever. At Arthur's slight incline of the head, Ariadne reaches out and puts a hand on what she hopes (prays, pleads) is really Alice's shoulder._

" _Hello, Ariadne."_

_Startled, the architect jerks her hand back. Alice turns then, looking exactly as she did the day they met. Ariadne glances at Arthur, demanding in fearful silence what the heck is going on. Surely this isn't a projection. Right? Maybe-Alice smiles softly at them. "I figured you two would show up at some point."_

" _Show up?" Arthur echoes, carefully calm as ever. Ariadne really needs to figure out how he does it. She doesn't realize she's shaking until his hand tightens in hers, and the trembling stills. Breathing normally is a struggle. Apparently oblivious to all this inner turmoil, Alice continues to just smile._

" _I'm dreaming, right?"_

_Arthur's hand convulses, so jarring and abrupt that Ariadne flinches and thirteen sets of eyes zoom in on them. There is a very long pause, in which the breeze picks up and Ariadne breathes slowly, counting backwards from ten in an effort to keep her heart from leaping out of her skin. Their panic (or hers at the very least) must have registered on their faces, because Alice tilts her head, as if considering for the very first time how strange this situation really is._

" _Did I say something?"_

_For what may be the first time since Ariadne's known him, Arthur seems to be stunned into silence. Silently cursing her luck, the architect tries to formulate a coherent reply._

" _How did you know—"_

" _Forty seven years." Mitchell's wife gazes back and forth between the pair in front of her, and Ariadne is left with that painfully vulnerable feeling again. "Mitchell and I have been married for forty seven years, my dears. Did you really think he was that good at keeping secrets?"_

_She's having a hard time coming up with anything other than 'um,' so Ariadne remains quiet and Alice brushes away the rhetoric question. "How long has it been?"_

" _Almost six weeks." Arthur's pained expression causes an invisible hand to wrap around Ariadne's heart and squeeze. "He's so worried."_

_No one needs clarification. Alice's eyes become glassy, and the invisible hand squeezes tighter. "I'm so sorry, Arthur."_

" _Don't be sorry." He's trying to be gentle but there's an edge there anyway. "You have nothing to be sorry about Alice. If anything, I should be sorry. I—" His voice cracks a little. "I should have been there for you. And Mitchell."_

_The woman shakes her head. "There was nothing you could have done. That person wanted to hurt us, not you. You were living your life, darling. We could hardly expect you to stay with us forever."_

" _But Connor—"_

" _Made his own choices. You had no control over him, and his problems with Zoe were his own. It wasn't your fault."_

_Arthur's breath catches in his throat, so sharply that even Ariadne can hear it. Alice stands then, her gaze imploring and wise and sad. "It wasn't your fault, Arthur."_

_He doesn't say anything. Out of the corner of her eye Ariadne registers movement. She turns her head, swallowing a knot of fear as she recognizes a single blonde head amidst sets of two._ _**Arthur's dream. It's Arthur's dream.** _ _The point man is so still now she isn't sure he's even still breathing._

" _You should talk to her."_

" _She's not—" The words break off like waves breaking on a rocky shore. His voice is rough and quiet. All Ariadne can think to do is to squeeze his hand, hold tight, and never let go._

" _Not real." The statement is bitter with grief. "I know. She's been here for a very long time, Arthur. In every dream I've had, she's a person on the street, in the crowd, almost always lost in the masses of people my mind likes to picture. But I always know she's there. Between the two of us there couldn't be a better version."_

_(beat beat beat)_

_Ariadne hopes silently that she's the only one who can hear that thumping inside her chest. It doesn't hurt too much yet. So far so good, right?_

" _You should do it," she says suddenly. The declaration is surprising, most especially to herself. The architect bites her lip, carefully raising her eyes to meet Arthur in the hopes that this doesn't ruin everything. "I think you need it."_

_For the longest moment the betrayal is all over Arthur's face (or maybe it just feels that way) and Ariadne's heart sinks. But then his eyes clear and there is resignation there, and maybe just a hint of gratitude._

" _I'm not going to win, am I?"_

_There's a ridiculous urge to giggle in relief. She squashes it quickly. "Probably not." Ariadne looks out towards the cliff side. "How much attention would I get jumping off that cliff?"_

" _Uh," (_ _ **don't laugh, don't laugh, don't laugh**_ _) "I wouldn't recommend it."_

" _Would you mind if I did it anyway?"_

_A low sound fills her ears as Arthur pulls her to him: a gruff kind of exhaling chuckle that makes Ariadne wistful for better days. "Oh Ari." His lips find the sensitive skin of that junction where her neck meets her shoulder and suddenly the architect isn't sure what she'd do without him there to keep her standing._

" _Take your time," she says, pulling back. "I'll see you on the other side." Turning to Alice, Ariadne wraps her in a hug. "This better work."_

" _I hope so too, my dear."_

_The architect has to fight a sudden onslaught of tears. She turns to go, then whirls around to Arthur and leans up for the barest brush of lips. He blinks, and she is running, hair streaming behind her, ignoring the stares. When she jumps, disappearing into the water's spray like a ghost, Arthur can't help but think it's the most beautiful thing he's ever seen._

**.a.**

Ariadne's eyes snap open to find Eames, hovering over her with one hand on her shoulder. Like he's about to pull her backwards.

"Eames?"

The look in his eyes is so full of apology that it stops her breath.

"Hello, Princess."

He straightens then, and the architect can't even draw the air back in. A gun is pressed with cruel resolution into the back of Eames's head. Her eyes follow the line of the dark grey suit's arm to the owner of the limb, her mind ordering the action even though her heart knows exactly who she's going to find.

"Are you serious right now?"

**.a.**

_He's afraid. As soon as Arthur admits it to himself, it must show on his face, because suddenly Alice is grasping his hands in hers. "Mitchell and I love you very much, Arthur." Regret passes over her face like a veil. "I'm sorry we never said it."_

_A knot the size of an orange lodges inside his throat. "I've missed you."_

_Alice's eyes fill with tears that glisten in the dying sunlight. "And we you, my dear. So much. I can't tell you how happy I am to have you in our lives again, no matter what your reasons are."_

_Blinking hurts. Swallowing hurts. Breathing hurts. It's making him dizzy. "I'm so sorry, Alice. Please, I..." He trails off, unable to summon the strength to rebuild those professional, perfect walls that have been crumbling for months now. "I don't know if I can do this." In the silence that follows, Arthur is glad for Ariadne's absence, if only for the selfish feeling of loathing weakness in front of her._

_Alice squeezes tightly, and the smoothness of her wedding rings is warm. "Of course you can. I have never blamed you, Arthur. Not for a moment."_

_All he can do is nod. As if she can sense an impending breakdown, the woman releases him with a watery smile. "Now go on."_

**.a.**

For the most infinite of moments, Ariadne just wants to scream. When she finally finds a coherent train of thought, the flatness of her voice to her own ears is chilling. "Are you here to kill us?"

( _beat beat beat_ )

Connor Black presses the gun's muzzle harder into Eames's head. To his credit, the forger doesn't even wince. "Haven't decided yet."

 _Then what the hell are you doing here?_ "He's trying to save her life. Why would you want to ruin that?"

He doesn't reply, although the glint in his eye hardens into something cold and dead. Arthur's gun is just a few inches away—within arms reach. Ariadne chances a look at Eames, brief but paramount. He nods so minutely that it's almost impossible to see.

"Why aren't you still in there with your precious Arthur?"

A lie is on the tip of her tongue, but at the last second she changes her mind. "He's with Zoe."

( _beatbeatbeatbeat)_

Connor's fury is so plain and vicious that she almost hesitates. But her body moves without any more instruction and ( **nothingnothingnothing** ) she's armed.

Eames is on the floor.

**.a.**

" _Hey you."_

_Three heartbeats, and then nothing. Finally Arthur remembers how to breathe, but not much else. He just stands there, staring at the sunset without really seeing it. He can't look at her just yet. Maybe not ever. Of course that resolution is broken quickly. Zoe's smile is light and so familiar that Arthur actually trembles with the effort to keep from engulfing this woman in his arms and freezing time._

_Because it's Zoe; the Zoe he remembers and aches with sadness for, all she has to do is tug on his sleeve and he's following like a lovesick puppy. She sits down on a dark grey blanket, patting the space beside her. "Grandma's still watching, you know. I'm not going to jump your bones."_

_He realizes a little belatedly that she's still twenty two. The ache is renewed, painful and sharp. Zoe's aviator sunglasses are perched on her head, and the hem of her white boyfriend button-up almost swallows her dark jean shorts. It's the last thing he saw her in._

**.a.**

"Don't you realize he loves her? Why can't you see it?"

Eames rolling over flickers into her peripheral vision, his shoulder bleeding, and Ariadne's heart starts again with the force of a kick drum. "Of course I can see it." If this were the same conversation with a different person, she would have rolled her eyes, but this is Connor and she's just sick of him. "It's all over his face."

"It doesn't bother you?" Connor's face is twisted into a freakish kind of grin. "Your darling Arthur loves another woman."

"Arthur can love whoever he wants. But of course you wouldn't understand that, would you?" Goading the man is probably not the greatest of ideas, but Ariadne is long past caring. "You just can't let go of your...your  _jealousy._ "

If there had been any doubt in anyone's mind that Connor wanted to kill her, there was no mistaking it now.

**.a.**

" _Stop being so morbid, Arthur," she chides, leaning over to knock his shoulder gently. "This is a dream, isn't it? Can't you change me?"_

_**Why would I want to change you?** _ _But of course he doesn't say that. Instead of trying to understand all the impossibly complicated implications, the man just tilts his head to the sky and takes a few deep breaths. When he looks back at Zoe, she's wearing a yellow sundress with thin straps that expose the flawless skin of her neck and shoulder. Arthur himself is clad now in dark jeans that he can't remember owning, though the shirt and tie remain._

_The final muted edges of the sun dip down past the horizon as Zoe shifts closer and leans her head against his shoulder. She still smells like lavender. The calm that Arthur has been cultivating so carefully evaporates. She stiffens, and he regrets letting that control slip._

" _I'm sorry."_

_They say it in near perfect sync. For the first time in too long, Arthur almost smiles. Zoe's cheeks are glowing with an adorable flush, but it falls away and he recognizes that serious look on her face at once._

" _What happened to letting go?"_

**.a.**

"Jealousy?"

He looks deranged. It's official. Ariadne wants to look at Eames for a second opinion, but she can't tear her eyes away from the gun pointed at her chest. She grips Arthur's own a little tighter. "You're jealous that he found success with Dom Cobb when you wanted it, jealous that your sister loved him—"

"Shut up!"

"That your grandparents prefer him—"

Connor jerks, and Ariadne can't hold down the flinch. His crazed eyes fall on his grandmother, lying there oblivious to all of this. It sinks in then, fast and cold and nearly paralysing. "Is that why you're here? He can't have them so no one can?"

Silence. She can barely get the words out. "It was you, wasn't it? Six years ago? You..." For a moment Ariadne refuses to say it, because saying it out loud will make it real.

"You tried to kill Mitchell."

( _beatbeatbeatbeat—)_

 _(_ **nothing** )

**.a.**

" _I..." He can't think of anything to say that doesn't sound incredibly ridiculous, or cheesy. Zoe tilts her head to the side, scrutinizing him._

" _Don't you remember what I told you?"_

" _Of course I remember." How could he forget?_

" _I never regret us, Arthur. Not for a second. Not then, not now, not ever. Don't you dare blame yourself for this."_

" _Connor does." It's out before he can take it back, and suddenly he's five, blaming someone else like a tattle tale. Shame burns like acid inside his mouth. "I let him...I let him use you to get in my head. It almost worked." He's not sure how or why, but suddenly words are tumbling from his lips with the rush of the waterfall. "I miss you, Zoe. I miss you so much and it...it just hurts. Connor blames me, and why shouldn't he? You were coming to see me."_

_He dares to look at her, but his eyes are full of tears and all Arthur can really see is a soft blonde head and shimming blue pools. He blinks, and Zoe refocuses into his vision with that soft, beautiful smile on her face._

" _You're an idiot, you know that?"_

**.a.**

( _beat beat beat)_

"What is  _wrong_  with you?" The words tear from Ariadne's throat in a scream. She sounds crazy now too. "Why can't you just let him be happy for once?"

"He took everything from me!" The gun is practically waving now as Connor shakes wildly. "My sister, my family, dreaming, everything! He  _abandoned_ me."

"You cut him out!"

"He doesn't deserve any of it. But it doesn't matter. Because I'm going to take the one thing he doesn't even know matters most."

She doesn't move fast enough.

**.a.**

" _I_ _ **chose**_ _to go and see you, Arthur. You had no control over that."_

" _I wanted you there." He nearly chokes on the words. Zoe reaches out and takes his hand, and this time he doesn't resist._

" _I wanted to be there. Remember? I couldn't wait to see you. Goof." She smacks him lightly. Something inside Arthur's chest breaks and falls away, and the next breath he takes feels like the first deep breath after breaking the surface of the ocean. Zoe leans her head on his shoulder while he turns his cheek into her hair and inhales the smell of summer. Arthur's tears are falling into her hair._

" _Part of me wants to stay."_

" _And the rest of you has to go back to Ari. You know you have to." He doesn't ask how she knows that._

" _I think I loved you." He has to whisper. "I might still."_

_She smiles, but it's a wistful kind of longing that tugs at the corners of her mouth. "I know. I loved you too. Still do."_

_Arthur closes his eyes—just for a second—but when he opens them she is gone. In her place is Alice, sitting upright. He has to crush the disappointment._

" _I have to go back. I made a promise to Ariadne."_

" _And what promise was that my dear?"_

" _I promised I would never leave her."_

_Alice tilts her head, scrutinizing him. Her eyes are bright, knowing, understanding. He finally realizes where Zoe got it. "You love her very much, don't you?"_

_He's nodding before he remembers his brain commanding the action. "I do."_

_The woman straightens before rising completely from the blanket. "Then I suppose we're done here, aren't we?"_

**.a.**

The force of the shots knocks her back, almost the floor. She can't hear. She can't breathe. But nothing hurts. ( _beatbeatbeatbeat)_ Ariadne stares down at the gun in her hands, unfired, not quite comprehending. The architect is afraid to look, but forces her eyes to move. Connor lies unmoving on the floor, and for another few seconds it looks as though Eames beside him, isn't either. Ariadne can't breathe until the Brit rolls over, groaning and swearing, holding a small silver revolver.

She swallows, trying to suck in air. Her eyes land on Alice, whose eyes snap open. The architect blinks, once, twice, and on the third the PASIV's red 00:00 fills her vision. Ariadne turns to Arthur, her mouth open to speak, but the words die upon sight of the blossoming red stain, getting larger and larger on his stomach.

( **nothing** )

( **nothing** )

( **nothing** )

( **nothing** )

There's shouting from outside and banging on the door, but she can't hear any of it. "Arthur?" The gun slips from her fingers but suddenly Eames is there, catching it swiftly and resetting the safety. He's not moving. "Arthur?" Crimson soaks wet and warm in her hands. "Wake up. Wake up, Arthur." She shakes him. "Wake up!"

The IV and briefcase vanish. The door slams open and Ariadne feels arms around her, gripping tight and pulling her backwards. A horrible sound reaches her ears then, undefinable except for how awful it is, and it's not until Arthur and Alice are engulfed by other bodies that Ariadne feels the burn of her own screaming.

"Arthur!  _Arthur!"_

Eames's grip is iron-clad, unrelenting to her struggle that rushes blood her face and makes her vision waver. "Come on, darling. They've got him. He'll be alright."

She can't stop screaming. The bishop is too heavy. Is it bad that her heart still isn't beating?

( **nothing** )

( **nothing** )

( **nothing** )

_thunk._


	20. Chapter Twenty

_We are very sad to announce the tragic passing of one of Black Industries most well-known family members. Connor Black was found dead in his grandmother Alice Black's hospital room late last night, where she was being treated for a heart attack that had left her in a coma._

_Sources report that hospital personnel responded to gunshots, entering to find Connor and three others visiting Mrs. Black. One had been shot, and police presume Black took his own life thereafter. Company CEO Mitchell Black declined to comment on this horrifying tragedy._

_No motive has been discovered as of yet, and the identity and condition of the second victim remain undisclosed. The one positive note in all of this is that Alice Black has awoken, and responded positively to all tests. Doctors expect her to make a full recovery. The funeral—_

_**click.** _

Ariadne sighs and drops the remote onto the hospital bed, trying to sort out her feelings. Arthur of course, can give her no help. The steady beeping of his heart monitor is reassuring still, as is the steady rise and fall of his chest. He's alive. Arthur is alive, and she is so struck with relief that it actually hurts.

She hasn't cried yet. She doesn't know why.

"Hey, Princess."

She hadn't realized her eyes had closed until Eames's voice startles her awake. Ariadne can feel rough callouses as his hand lands on her shoulder and squeezes tightly. "How's our boy doing?"

"Not much better or worse," says the architect with a sigh. Her empathy for Mitchell triples instantly a hundred times over. "The doctors are optimistic, though. They just said it's up to him."

Eames hums thoughtfully. "So really it's a matter of precise point man timing?"

Ariadne chuckles dryly. "Knowing Arthur?" But she doesn't  _really_  know him, does she? The humour must slide quickly from her face, because the Brit nods quickly.

"Yeah."

A brief, awkward pause fills the air. The young woman clears her throat experimentally. "So you'll stay with him then?"

"Of course. Take your time. I'll call you if anything changes," he adds, before Ariadne can even open her mouth.

Maybe Arthur's right, she thinks. Maybe they have been together too long. She glares without really meaning to at the dressed she'd carefully draped over another chair; another dress for another occasion she never wants to repeat. The architect stands and straightens her clothes, feeling dread creep like an unwelcome chill up her spine. Eames regards her with what looks too much like knowing for comfort.

"You don't have to do this, you know."

Her lips twist bitterly. "I know. But I'm going to anyway." Ariadne takes one last look at her unconscious point man, her heart pulling painfully. Unhindered by Eames, she leans down and brushes her lips against Arthur's forehead. "I'll be back soon."

She picks up the black dress and leaves without looking back, knowing that even now, he has the power to make her stay.

**.a.**

It's too bright for this.

The sun is glaring and mocking somehow at the same time, as though Mother Nature disproves of Ariadne's role in all of this, while also sadistically enjoying her ill-disguised discomfort. She has to squint to make out the glinting wooden coffin as it slides in and out of vision behind the mass of mourners. Despite all her bravado at the hospital, Ariadne could only bring herself to stand at the back of the throng, under a large tree that hides her from prying eyes.

The architect can barely hear the words being spoken from feet away, but doesn't try to listen. The thought of trying to reconcile the Connor she knew from the one whose mother weeps openly is too much to bear. It was stupid to have come, Ariadne thinks bitterly, but a glimpse of Mitchell in her peripheral vision keeps her rooted to the ground.

That, and the gnarled, twisting knot of guilt clenched tightly in her stomach.

She can't help but wonder how Arthur will react to all of this. As much as the point man seemed to rail against it, he and Connor were linked. Granted more permanently and too close to probably be of comfort, especially now. The sudden thought that Arthur might be angry or disappointed in her is choking. It's an irrefutably selfish idea, and Ariadne forces it out of her mind, just in time to see the first red rose land on the coffin's dark surface.

She keeps staring even as the flowers continue to fly into her line of vision, and the dark edge of the casket disappears. She has to make sure this is real. The fear of waking up tomorrow to realize this is all a dream is paralysing. The bishop sits in her tiny black bag as a distinct weight, but Ariadne doesn't dare pull it out. An arm brushing against hers snaps the architect out of her reverie. She looks up just in time to catch a glimpse of Mitchell's brilliant, grateful eyes.

For what? For being here? He can't be thankful for what she's done to his family. Shame locks her vocal chords together.

Ariadne refuses to acknowledge the relief.

**.a.**

Three episodes into a french dubbed Doctor Who marathon, (Eames so wants Amy) Arthur wakes up. At first the forger dismisses the rustling as a trick of his exhausted mind. But then he looks again, and a pair of dark, confused eyes stare back.

"Eames?" he rasps, almost too quiet to hear. Actually, all that comes out is a sad, croaking sound, so that's what Eames has to assume he said.

"Look who decided to rejoin us."

The Brit is about to smirk and drawl something about hospital gowns, but the urge fades at the frantic expression on Arthur's face. He's never seen the point man so afraid before. It's decidedly unnerving. Arthur's rasping again, shifting, but likely too weak to move. "A-Ari...Ari-adne..."

Oh. Duh. What's that expression? Facepalm? Right. One of those is very tempting right now. "She's fine, mate. She's at Connor's—"

Definitely a facepalm. A headdesk, maybe? Whatever colour Arthur had left drains from his face as he shoots up. That can't be good for his injury, the other man thinks wryly. Eames lurches out of his chair, ignoring the scream of pain from his patched shoulder, lunging at the point man as Arthur seizes his IV and goes to pull it out.

"Calm down, man! She's at Connor's  _funeral."_

Arthur freezes. For the longest moment Eames isn't sure he's even breathing.

" _What?_ "

At this proximity, the word is perfectly clear. Yet somehow, it still sounds broken. Eames takes a breath, reluctant to ease his grip on the point man's wrists. "If you stop trying to break out," he says, breathing deeply, "I'll explain everything."

Here it is: this moment, this barely-there silence punctuated only by haggard breathing and the (mildly irregular, mildly alarming) beeping of Arthur's heart monitor. Here is the moment that will define Eames and Arthur as something perhaps other than passing acquaintances, other faces on other jobs, that will probably make them better than practical partners and jibing enemies.

One day someone might dare to call them friends.

Arthur goes slack. His almost-partner gives him one last wary look before letting up and returning to his chair. On screen, Amy pulls a reluctant Doctor into Vincent Van Gogh's exhibit. She's going to be disappointed, Eames knows. He's seen the episode before. Arthur on the other hand...he isn't sure. He might finally crack.

"I don't know how he got in. He told me to kick Ariadne out of the dream. Said he had a score to settle. She woke up before I had to."

The point man's face is marble. Colour has not returned to his cheeks.

"She dove for your gun. She found out he was behind the attempt on Mitchell. He was going to  _kill_  her Arthur." Eames runs a tired hand over his face. "I couldn't let him do that."

**.a.**

It feels like a long time before she can bring herself to move. The rest of the funeral goers have since dispersed, but one person still remains in front of the bright colour hiding a very dark man. Connor's mother. There's no mistaking her. Every feature that made Zoe beautiful and Connor possibly handsome belongs to the woman who gave them life.

Her eyes, still wet with tears, her sharp, angular face brightened by the sun, the delicate curve of her lips etched now in what might be permanent anguish. Ariadne can feel her heart lurching and this sudden caving in of her chest that makes breathing so painful.  _You did this to her,_  whispers a cruel, mocking voice.  _She's buried both of her children now because of what you did. You might as well have pulled the trigger yourself._

The architect nearly recoils into the tree trunk. Maybe the doubt is right. Maybe she is changing too much—like she swore to herself and the darkness of her room she wouldn't—making choices she never would have considered otherwise. Ariadne had been ready to shoot Connor in that moment, armed with the knowledge of his deeds and his hate and the need to protect Alice, and Eames.

Protect Arthur.

Hadn't she been willing to stand in front of him not too long ago? Hadn't she shot Mal (too real in spite of everything) and turned the gun on Cobb without hesitating? Does that make her a liar? Ariadne has fired a gun before. She shot Mal. She killed her. And in that dark, unvisited place in the deepest corner of her mind, the architect knows she would have shot Connor.

It probably would have killed him too, along with that last piece of herself that is too stubbornly naive to admit otherwise.

"Am I a bad person?"

The woman just a few feet away looks back at Ariadne, who is too stunned to do anything but return her gaze. "Was I a horrible mother who somehow deserved this?"

_See? You made her feel this way._

She flips off the voice. Say something, damn it. "No. No you're not. The Connor I knew seemed to love his family very much."

_Almost too much._ Mrs. Black smiles through glistening tears, and it's in this moment, standing in the cemetery with the one person who never for a second stopped loving Connor Black, Ariadne knows. There is no going back from this. Her life is changed irrevocably and there is nothing she can do to reverse it. Connor's mother blows a kiss to her son and her daughter before leaving Ariadne alone with her guilt and the suddenly cold sunshine.

**.a.**

"Alice?"

It's as though Arthur can't bring himself to fully phrase the question. Eames leans back in his chair, grateful to finally be delivering some good news. "She's alive. You did it. She's going to be fine."

The point man closes his eyes. The relief is plain in his face, and Eames, in the hopes of some compassion, carefully averts his gaze. Quiet settles around them, for once not actually suffocating. It gives the Brit hope.

"She's at the funeral?"

So much for that. Eames scratches at the back of his head, feeling strangely like he's about to be reprimanded for letting his daughter out after curfew. "Yeah." Arthur reaches somewhere far away for visible control. "She wanted to go, mate. For you."

He flinches. The muscle in his jaw leaps. The forger leans heavily on the conviction that Ariadne has so much of. "Are you telling me you wouldn't have gone?" The renewed silence speaks volumes. Soft knocking reaches their ears then. Eames and Arthur lock eyes. "Yes?" the forger calls, already half out of his chair.

"May I come in?" asks Mitchell's voice. The Brit sinks back into his former position.

"Please."

As the doorknob turns, Eames glances back at the bedridden man, whose face is once again white and tight with tension. This is probably not going to go well. The door opens. The forger holds his breath without really meaning to, staring very determinedly at the wall. Seconds tick past. Nothing has exploded.

"Oh my son..." Mitchell's voice is hoarse. "Thank you for coming back to us."

Arthur says nothing. Perhaps he won't. Perhaps he can't. Eames can't imagine what he must be feeling. Clearing his throat awkwardly, he goes to rise again.

"I'll...I'll go find your girl." No one corrects him. That hope warms his gut once more. Halfway across the room, Arthur's voice calls him back. "Eames."

"Hmm?" In the back of his mind, the Brit knows what's going on here. But for once he doesn't want to hang around and enjoy it.

"Thank you." The words just barely stay together.

There is a sudden urge to wheel around, stare right at this man he might actually call his friend, and tell him that everything is going to okay. Because for once in his life, Eames actually believes it. "No worries, mate. I've got your back." He doesn't stick around, relieved to be free of the strain and regret. Eames has never seen Arthur cry.

He's not about to break his streak.

**.a.**

For a few brief seconds it's just  _over._ And then her eyes wander too far, past the coffin to the granite gravestone beside it, adorned with fresh flowers. Sunflowers. Suddenly breathing is impossible. She doesn't want to look, partly because that would make everything that much more real, and partly because it feels like an intrusion on a deeply personal moment.

Arthur's, Connor's, his mother's, Mitchell's, and Alice's. They are all bonded by this memory of a girl: a girl they loved and cherished and missed with such intensity that some hearts stopped beating altogether. This is not a place for Ariadne, in all her unfamiliarity and clumsy attempts at empathy. Sometimes the struggle leaves her breathless. Yet here she is, unable to pull herself away.

**ZOE MAY BLACK**  
 **1983-2005**   
_It gives a lovely light_

The architect forms the words but gives them no voice. The inscription seems familiar, but Ariadne can't place it.

"Edna St. Vincent Millay." The voice is familiar too, but her nerves are still too weak, too frazzled. She jumps and jerks to find Eames. The Brit, for once, looks undeniable sombre with his hands stuffed in his pockets. "It's a poem." He begins to recite it then, while Ariadne shivers and tries to stamp down the feeling of being haunted.

"My candle burns at both ends. It will not last the night. But ah, my friends, and oh, my foes – it gives a lovely light."

"No regrets?" The architect guesses, picturing the brightness in an imaginary dark. Eames nods.

"No regrets."

The breeze shifts directions, catching her breath in her throat. "I want to tell her I'm sorry." She has no idea where the words are coming from, but the idea sticks. Ariadne resists the desire to reach for the bishop again. "Is that weird?"

"Not at all," Eames breathes, as though speaking through a sigh. She can't tell if he's lying. It's quiet then, and the architect doesn't feel so alone. "He's awake."

For a moment it doesn't register, and then her heart restarts. "He is?" She has to marvel at her own ability to string two words together. "Is he—"

"He's fine. I'll take you back," he says, again before she can even form the request. "We just have to make one stop first."

"Eames..."

"Trust me." The man smiles, and for the very first time, Ariadne can see why other women are so instantly smitten. "C'mon."

**.a.**

She wants to ask questions, too many questions that are only half-thought through inside her head. Especially when they pull up to her apartment building, rise in the elevator, and cross to her door in silence. But Ariadne bites her tongue and follows Eames inside, making a beeline for the couch. She's been very determinedly ignoring the blistering pain in her heels up till this point, if only in front of Eames and his affectionate delight in her girlish troubles.

"What exactly did you need from here?" She kicks off her heels as the Brit disappears into the kitchen.

"Oh," comes his muffled voice, "nothing in particular."

The architect carefully resists the urge to follow him and throw her shoes at his surely smirking face. She twists towards towards his voice in an effort to be better heard. "Then what—"

"He thinks he's funny, remember? It's part of his charm."

Ariadne's shoes clatter to the floor, the soft  _thump_  on the carpet actually sounding loud in the sudden, stark silence. She's already reaching for her bag, her totem, because if this is some horribly cruel joke, someone is going to get their face beat in. Her body aches with the effort not to turn around, towards the door and that voice she knows so well, but the fear twisting around her heart won't allow it.

Is this all happening inside her head? Does she want this  _so badly_  that her subconscious just thoughtfully concocted the scenario?

"You shouldn't have jumped, you know."

"You had to stay." Ariadne stumbles over the words. "And I was hoping for something more eloquent than being shot in the head."

A faint laugh. Maybe. It was too soft to tell. "I had to come back."

"Why?" Her voice wavers. There's no denying it. The architect realizes too late that a projection of her own mind must know the answer too.

"I promised, didn't I?" Ariadne reaches for the bishop, firm in her grasp and then to the surface of the coffee table. It is covered in a thin layer of dust (has she been gone that long, or has she just not cared?) which plumes in a haphazard scatter as the tiny golden totem tilts, turns, and,

..

..

..

..

_thunk._

She's turning and running and her vision tunnels at the sight of him, leaning a little into himself and the door frame. His collar is crooked, his hair askew, his vest unbuttoned and everything covered in wrinkles. He's almost smiling; his eyes—they might be wet but she can't be sure—crinkling at the corners just the slightest bit. He looks worn with sudden age. He's beautiful.

_Arthur_.

Her Arthur. Their bodies collide and in the same moment something tugs sharply in her gut, as though the world just snapped back into place. Or maybe, in the seconds that followed, it had blasted into pieces. The sob chokes her breath, and for a moment her body goes limp, her brain losing all control over her limbs, so she's afraid of slipping to the floor like a rag doll.

Of course Ariadne doesn't have to worry long, because there is a pair of strong arms locked around her; long fingers holding her neck and sending electricity through her spine that pools into a burning at the small of her back, where his other hand gathers the thin fabric of her dress in a tight grip. She almost can't breathe. She's dizzy.

She's still crying.

Words won't come. Thoughts won't form. Ariadne gasps for air as Arthur's breath warms the exposed skin of her shoulder. They're both shaking. She can feel his lips moving in her hair as he lifts his head, but she can't hear anything other than this roaring inside her ears. Eventually (minutes, seconds, hours?) he pulls back, but the tears are still so blinding.

"Listen to me." She swallows. The sound of his voice is crippling. "This is not your fault. You have to understand that."

"But—"

"No buts." There is a trace of that anger she'd been so afraid of. The architect is shocked at her own ability to argue. Granted it's weak and kind of breathless, but the intent is there. That's what counts, right? Arthur frames her face in his hands and lowers his gaze to hers, scorching and oh so determined. "You have to understand," he repeats. "Promise me."

Damn him, she thinks. But there is time later to be bitter, to grieve for the person she used to be. Ariadne can't deny him this. She can't really deny him anything. "Fine," she grounds out. Apparently unsatisfied, the point man leans closer until an inhale would brush their lips together.

"Say it," he insists, and there is a flash of just closing the gap to deter the argument. The architect wonders if it would actually work. "Promise me."

It hurts. She opens her mouth to say the words, to tell him about the rubble that is her lungs and heart and chest cavity, to say  _Ican't_ _ **Ican't**_ _I'msorry,_ but,

"I know." Of course he does. He always will. Ariadne is beginning to understand that, finally. "I know it hurts, Ari. But..." Arthur is  _crying._ Ariadne is sure of it now. She bites back another sob and a muffled whimper comes out. "This is the only way I know to make sure you'll be alright."

He's brushing tears from her cheeks even as she hesitates, with that feather-light tenderness that causes the remaining pieces of her heart to flutter. Ariadne takes a shuddering breath to say the words he needs to hear, because if she's learned  _anything_  in the past fifteen weeks and three and a half days (since their lives intersected and changed hers forevermore) it is that she would do just about anything for this man standing in front of her.

"I promise."

Arthur exhales, sounding so utterly  _relieved_ that it brings a fresh wave of guilt crashing down on her hastily built walls. There is a brief silence in which Ariadne forces herself to come to grips with this new normal they've fallen into.

"Who am I to deserve you?" she asks, afraid of the answer even as she poses the question into the curve between his neck and shoulder.

He presses his lips into her hair again, murmuring as he goes from her temple _—_  "You,"

her cheek _—_  "are,"

to the sensitive skin next to her ear.

"Everything."

When their lips and minds and hearts connect, when their worlds cave in and fill with light and stars and silence, there is a second—just one—of nothing (no fear no hurt no pain no bishops) and then a thousand echoes of absolute clarity.

There are no dreams, Ariadne truly  _knows_  now, that make her feel this alive.

**.a.**

"I—"

His lips  
 _(ready?)_

"I might..."

ghosting  
 _(now?)_

"just..."

confessions  
 _(now.)_

"love..."

across  
 _(now  
_ _now_  
now  
now.)

her skin.  
( _just)_

"you."

( _breathe.)_

She would laugh, if she could. "Might?"

( _don'tlookjustjump)_

"I might just love you too."

( _sixes and sideways chess pieces)_

Together in the centre of their universe, they burn so beautifully bright.

" _...ah, my friends, and oh, my foes – it gives a lovely light."_

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this fic is like, my baby. I've definitely never written anything as long or mildly complex, and I'm not sure I will again. 
> 
> thoughts are loved and appreciated!
> 
> yours,
> 
> annie


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